


We Were Just Kids When We Fell in Love

by Anonymous



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: First Kiss, First Meetings, Getting Together, I cannot emphasize that enough, M/M, POV Multiple, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-04
Updated: 2019-08-04
Packaged: 2020-07-31 10:27:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 68,365
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20113603
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Zhenya nods, mesmerized by the way he talks, his mouth rounding out the vowels until they are more pronounced than Zhenya has ever heard them in English classes. “You name?” The words spill out before he can stop them, and he knows he has misspoken as soon as the boy’s face scrunches up in confusion. He would be embarrassed, but he is too distracted by the cute wrinkle of his nose.“My name?”Zhenya nods.“Sidney,” he says. “Uh, Sidney Crosby.”





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: This is fiction. Title is from Ed Sheeran's 'Perfect'.
> 
> Additionally, I tried to keep this as true to real events as possible (barring the relationship between Sid and Geno obviously); however, I did invoke creative license on a couple things.
> 
> First, Jeff Tambellini was Sid's roommate for the 2004 WJC. In this, Brent Seabrook is.
> 
> Second, Sid actually attended the 2004 draft. In this, he does not.

By the time the bus pulls into the hotel parking lot, Zhenya wants to crawl into bed, pull the covers over his head, and sleep for the next year or so. He had woken at an ungodly hour to catch his flight for Moscow to meet the team before heading to Helsinki. If that was not hardship enough, Helsinki was not even their final destination. Upon landing in Finland, Ishmatov has hustled them off the plane and onto the bus, no meager feat, especially with Ovechkin nattering on about sightseeing and all the best places to pick-up—knowledge he had only gained through word-of-mouth from older players that had been around. Zhenya was still convinced they were messing with him and had in fact provided the addresses to nursing homes or psychiatric hospitals that they had found online.

Served Ovechkin right, if he cared more about chasing tail than playing hockey. From Moscow to Helsinki, he had mourned the lack of real Russian women they would find and had grudgingly admitted he would have to settle for a less pretty Finn.

“It’s only for a night, you know,” he had whispered in Zhenya’s ear, breath humid and thick with the smell of the coffee he had drunk before takeoff. He had commandeered the seat by Zhenya to bond over their future NHL stardom (“Though you will never outshine me, dear Zhenya. Always second best.”) and the glory that they would bring to Mother Russia in this tournament and all the rest, until they could no longer hold a stick or stand on skates. Despite Zhenya’s best efforts to nap or read, he couldn’t avoid Ovechkin’s incessant, overly friendly chatter. “We can settle for one night. Two if she’s special.”

The leer and wink that Ovechkin aimed at him had sent a shudder down Zhenya’s spine. God, he hated this. Locker rooms and buses were always filled with this talk about women and sex, scoring and getting lucky, and he never knew how to respond, what to say to fit in with them. The boys back in Magnitogorsk had decided that Zhenya was a closet romantic who wanted to wait for the right girl before giving it up, and he let that belief remain. It was much easier to excuse his lack of interest because he didn’t want to hook up, rather than because he didn’t want to hook up with a girl. If he had the choice—if he even had the option—he would already have had his first sexual partner, maybe even multiple. He didn’t have the choice though, not at home, not with Russian laws, not with his potential to play in the NHL.

“I don’t want a night or two of fun, Ovechkin.” Despite the constant reminders to ‘Just call me Sasha. We’re friends now, Zhenya,’ he had persisted in the formality of last names.

“Ah, yes, I heard you weren’t into that.” How would Ovechkin know? He lived in Moscow, over a thousand kilometers away from Magnitogorsk. Maybe Yezhov or Pestunov had said something. “Looking for the right one, aren’t you, Zhenya?” Ovechkin smirked, “But how will you know it is the right one, if you don’t do a test run first, huh?”

Zhenya had hunched his shoulders, drawn his vivid red jacket with Россия emblazoned on the back tighter around himself, and held his book up to block everything out. He wouldn’t be able to read; the book was ten centimeters from his face at most, but he didn’t care as long as it made Ovechkin leave him in peace.

An exaggerated sigh had come from his left, before Ovechkin had turned to Korneyev and asked if he could get back out because he needed to talk to someone who understood fun. He had left Zhenya alone for the remainder of the flight and through the awful bus ride, but Zhenya knew it wouldn’t last. Ovechkin would return to pester him with more questions or maybe even try to force him to go out in search of the pick-up hotspots. This would be a long two weeks.

The hotel they are staying at is larger than Zhenya expected from the small town of Hämeenlinna. Its façade has dulled with age, the off-white color belying the heavy snowfall typical of a Finnish winter. It looks just like every other hotel Zhenya has stayed at, since he joined the Superleague just a few short months ago, and the appeal of travel and hotels has faded enough to leave him lethargic as he drags himself from his seat. At the front of the bus, Ishmatov yells for everyone to wait outside, while one of the managers runs in to grab room keys.

Snow coats almost every surface, frosting the windows of nearby stores and piling up in corners where it has been shoveled to clear streets and sidewalks, and Zhenya despairs at its grayish hue. Snow is only beautiful as it falls or when it sits undisturbed and pristine, deceptively smooth as it rises and falls in crests made by the wind.

As he steps off the bus, legs a bit unsure on solid ground after being cramped for many long hours, Zhenya takes a deep breath, grateful to no longer be caught in the recycled air of an airplane or bus, though there’s a cold bite to the wind that stings his nose. Taking a few steps to stretch his legs, he observes the quiet streets, unsurprised to see only a stray passerby or two. It is Christmas, and though that doesn’t mean much to him, it is a holiday in Finland, and most people are probably taking advantage of the time off from work or school to be with family, indoors where it’s warm.

One of the equipment managers opens the large hatches below the bus and neatly steps aside as an errant hockey bag slides from its position onto the asphalt. “Listen for your names, boys,” he calls out, as he grabs the tag on the fallen bag. Another manager comes forward to help, and Zhenya settles into the routine. This may only be his second tournament with a national team, but he knows how this works, feels comfortable standing in the sea of red, waiting for his name to be called out.

He thinks of his bed, somewhere in the small hotel, with its fresh sheets and warm blankets, and the room it’s in, which has a shower. Oh, a shower sounds nice, so nice. He wants to wash off the smell of travel and stale sweat, but there is no time. As soon as they had boarded the bus in Helsinki, coach had told them they would drop their bags at the hotel before heading straight to the local rink for their first team practice, so there was no time for a shower.

Practice will be hell, he is sure of it. Like him, many of the guys had woken early to catch flights into Moscow, and the ungodly hour coupled with too much time spent in tight spaces means everyone will be stiff out on the ice. Zhenya has no doubt that coach will be quick to send them to the line if they complain or play too slowly.

“Malkin!” Zhenya turns to retrieve his bag, one of the last to be unloaded, and sees Ishmatov conversing with the trainer who had gone in for their keys. Room assignments are about to be given.

He recites a quick prayer and kisses the medallion around his neck, hoping his roommate will be someone likeable, tolerable even.

“Alright, boys.” Ishmatov gestures for them to gather around and levels each with a look Zhenya knows will accept no argument. “I have your room assignments here,” he says, as he waves a single sheet of paper in the air. “I don’t want to hear any complaints or whining. You will accept them and be grateful that you get to be here, when others were not so lucky. You will have ten minutes—” a den of noise erupts at that, protests and upset being voiced from every side. “Settle down, settle down. As I was saying, you will have ten minutes from the time the last room assignment is given to get your bags into your rooms and get your asses back to the bus. Anyone later than that will be left here and can expect to be on a return flight home tomorrow.”

“He’s not serious, is he?” Kazionov whispers from Zhenya’s left. “We’ve got our first game tomorrow. Sending someone home would be a handicap to the whole team.”

Zhenya shrugs. Ishmatov probably isn’t serious about sending anyone home, but he is serious about leaving anyone that doesn’t make it back to the bus in time.

“Make it through group play, and then we can do some rearranging in Helsinki, if any of the room assignments don’t work out.” Ishmatov waits for the team to nod their understanding before handing the paper to the manager and heading into the hotel.

Zhenya waits for his name, bouncing on the balls of his feet and breathing into his hands as the cold seeps through his jacket and trainers. The sun is dipping below the horizon, painting the sky in beautiful shades of red and orange that Zhenya would enjoy if he wasn’t freezing his damn ass off. He watches Yezhov and Pestunov be paired off with other guys, letting out a disappointed huff. Of course he wouldn’t be paired with another Metallurg guy. This is an international tournament, bringing guys from all over Russia together. Their first game is tomorrow, so they need to establish chemistry fast, and Ishmatov is apparently the kind of coach that thinks that should start with room assignments.

“Malkin and Ovechkin, room 357.”

Zhenya freezes as he hears his name called out and is immediately overcome with a sense of dread when Ovechkin lets out a whoop across from him. He swoops in to grab the key from the manager and turns towards Zhenya, beaming.

“See,” he exclaims, “I told you we would bond!” He tosses an arm around Zhenya’s tense shoulders and guides them towards the entrance. “We have six whole days here to become friends. I can learn what you want in a woman, so I can help you find that special one. Then you won’t look so sad because you’ll be getting it on the regular. Trust me,” he leans close, conspiratorially, “you think your hand is enough now, only because you don’t know how good the alternative is.”

Zhenya grimaces. His hand is enough. His hand has to be enough because there is no other option right now. Maybe someday, once he is established in the NHL, once he has brought Russia enough gold medals that he will be forgiven this indiscretion. Then he can try the alternative and know how good it is.

“Oh, Zhenya, don’t make that face. It will be fun.”

\----

Practice that evening is worse than Zhenya had anticipated. He can feel the stiffness in his muscles as he pulls on his gear in the locker room and knows he is not the only one. The fugue of travel and time change has him slower than he normally would be, getting out to the ice. Back home he would be preparing for bed right now, but here he is, lacing up his skates alongside his similarly jetlagged teammates.

The ice is smooth and fresh when they make their way out to the rink, and Zhenya skates slow, lazy circles before snagging a puck to bat around. It is still a novel experience to look around at the sea of red, and he can’t help but smile knowing that he was chosen to represent Russia at World Juniors. It had been an honor to be selected for the U18 team earlier in the year, but this somehow feels more important. He is half a year away from his draft, and he will be playing with and against guys in the same spot. Some have already been drafted, have practiced with NHL teams, maybe even played a few games. This is the kind of competition he needs to prove himself in if he wants to be taken seriously in the draft.

“Huddle up, boys,” Ishmatov hollers from his spot at center ice. Zhenya abandons his distracted stickhandling and joins his teammates. It’s strange to look around and see different faces from those he has grown used to, but this is tournament play: being thrown in with guys you don’t know, have only ever hear about, maybe played against. “I know you’ve been cramped up all day and could do with a proper warm-up—” A groan starts up, and Ishmatov raises a hand before it can morph into anything more. “But I don’t want to waste time. We have our first game tomorrow against Slovakia at 15:00. This is the only real practice we are going to get, so let’s make the most of it. If you can run the drills without complaint, you can hang on to your sticks and play; if not, bagskate it is.”

The longer Zhenya is here, the more he understands why Ishmatov was chosen to coach a group of rowdy, overly confident teenagers. He knows how to make a threat both frightening and believable.

They split up, defensemen on one end and forwards on the other with goalies going off to do whatever they do to maintain the craziness necessary to want pucks shot at you. Zhenya falls into the routine of passing drills, relishing the swoosh of ice beneath his skates and the thwack of puck and tape connecting. This is what he loved about hockey. The locale may change. The team may change. But hockey stays the same, constant, and it helps Zhenya settle in and forget about the world outside, where he can’t read the street signs that have foreign letters and names, where the people speak a language that makkes no sense. On the ice, he doesn’t need words. He can spin and cut and shoot, and that is the only language he needs to tell people what he is capable of.

Once Ishmatov decides they are warm enough, he begins splitting them into lines and d-pairs, and Zhenya is unsurprised to find himself once again beside Ovechkin and his overexuberance.

“Zhenya!” he cries, thumping him on the back. “This is good. You make such pretty passes, and I score the best goals. Together we will be unconquerable.”

Zhenya shrugs the lingering hand from his shoulder and skates to position. “You’ll only score if you’re able to keep up. I swear you’re slower than my grandma after one of her morning walks.”

Ovechkin gasps in false offense. “Zhenya,” he cries, hand clutched over his heart, “you wound me, deeply. I am in great condition. It will be you,” he gestures at Zhenya with his stick, “who needs to try and keep up.”

With a rueful look, Zhenya collects a puck, and the drill begins.

Playing with Ovechkin is much easier than he expects. Once he is too tired from racing down the ice to score, he is almost bearable, pleasant if Zhenya is being generous, though that might just be because he can sense the many goals that await them over the next two weeks.

Ovechkin (“Sasha, please. We’re lineys now. You can’t be so formal with me.”) lets him take first shower when they are back at the hotel, but Zhenya suspects he was just too exhausted to fight him for it. Either way, he relishes the hot water that sluices over his aching muscles, soothing and loosening, and remains in the shower until the steam is thick in the air. When he exits the bathroom in a loose pair of sweatpants and his oldest Metallurg shirt that still fits, he is relieved to see Sasha passed out on his bed and therefore unable to continue giving him grief over his incompetence with women.

He had expanded on the current Theory of Zhenya’s Love Life, as he had dubbed it, during breaks between drills and short scrimmages. While everyone else was trying to catch their breath, he was making the rounds, chatting with everyone and getting them to weigh in on Zhenya’s romantic reticence. He was a gossip, possibly the biggest gossip Zhenya has ever met, and that includes the local knitting circle of prying grandmothers back home.

Sasha had concluded that Zhenya didn’t like picking up because he didn’t know how, and he was too embarrassed to ask anyone for assistance, so he pretended like he didn’t want to hook up because he was waiting for the special girl. It was a good story, Sasha had said, but since he now knew the truth, he would educate Zhenya in the ways of wooing, and Zhenya would have a lovely lady before the end of January.

Zhenya had shaken his head and wandered off to talk to Yezhov. He is beginning to learn that arguing with Sasha is futile; the best option is to ignore him until he goes away or falls asleep.

With a shake of his head, Zhenya crawls into bed, feeling sore and well-worked, excited for the team and the success he feels certain they will see in the tournament.

\----

They have a rough start in the first game, continuing to settle as a team. Zhenya does not quite click with Sasha and Semin yet, but he can see the potential, the beautiful passes that are almost there. The tie against Slovakia is a disappointment; Zhenya knows it isn’t good for their rankings in the quarterfinals. They will need to win the next three if they want to be a top seed. They can still progress in the tournament if that doesn’t happen, but it will mean having to play in the quarterfinals, rather than securing a spot in the semis.

“Zhenya,” Sasha’s voice cuts through Zhenya’s rumination, and he looks up to see his left wing stripped down to his shorts. The casual nudity of the locker room never fails to make him uneasy, always worried his eyes will linger too long and he will be caught and thrown out of the league and into jail. “Don’t look so sad. A tie isn’t great, but it was our first game; we’ll get better. And we,” he gestures between them, “will show everyone we are ready for the draft. 1-2, you know. Obviously, I will be number one, but you’re good enough for two.”

“Don’t be so certain I won’t beat you,” Zhenya replies, returning to the task of removing his sweat-soaked gear. He had started to undress after Ishmatov had finished railing on them for their sloppy performance and lazy skating, threatening suicides at practice tomorrow if it continued. He had left with a final order to get on the bus and go straight to their hotel rooms. “There will be no sneaking out,” he had said, eyes fixed on Sasha, who swung his head from side-to-side as if someone else could actually be the target of that comment. Zhenya had begun to strip off his jersey and pants, but the thought of suicides and the importance of winning the next few games had sidetracked him.

“Zhenya!” Sasha cries in delight, eyes lit up. “You’re so cute thinking you can beat me.” He reaches over to ruffle a hand through Zhenya’s hair, leaving it in uneven tufts.

Zhenya bats at him, and Sasha dances out of his reach, bouncing on the balls of his feet with an almost childlike energy. His movements seem careless and happy, but Zhenya can sense a deeper tension in him and in the locker room. The pressure is coming in from all sides: coaches, fans, family, and a 2-2 tie with Slovakia is not good enough for a Russian team.

Zhenya can feel the tension running through the team, the fear of not being good enough that gnaws at each of them. This is not the right way to start a tournament. There is nothing he can do to change the last three hours, nothing he can say that will remove the bitter taste of a disappointing game and a chewing out from coach. But he can lighten the mood, he can engage in this childish game with Sasha and maybe get a few laughs and smiles from the boys, maybe see the strain drain from their shoulders as they put this game behind them and move onto the next one.

Eyes firmly averted, Zhenya leans down to peel his filthy socks from his shin pads. He can see Sasha’s bouncing slow and then stop, before his feet angle away and he steps towards his locker. Zhenya takes advantage of his turned back and pelts him, one sock to the back, the other to the head.

Sasha turns back in shock.

“It’s not hard to beat you, Sasha. You won’t score if I don’t give you the puck.” Zhenya smirks and leans down to work on his shin pads.

There is a moment of silence, all eyes fixed on him and Sasha, who bounds forward and throws his arms around Zhenya.

“Sasha! You called me Sasha!” He gets Zhenya in a headlock and begins ruffling his hair, causing further disarray. “We’re friends now. No take backs.”

Zhenya jostles him away, and he dramatically careens into Sergei Gimayev, who falls into Korneyev, who pushes him back into Sasha. The playful shoving persists until everyone has taken part, either through a shove of their own or a chirp thrown out to encourage someone else. When they have all quieted down and returned to their post-game routine, Sasha catches Zhenya’s eye and nods once, a small tilt of his head that lets Zhenya know he is grateful he didn’t let him walk away.

It’s not a solution; there is still lots of work to be done, chemistry to create in order to have the success they want, but it makes a difference. Zhenya can see that Barulin’s shoulders aren’t quite so tense and Kosmachev is actually talking to the guys around him, rather than stewing by himself. He can hear playful chirps being tossed around with words of encouragement, and he breathes easier. They have two days before they face Sweden, which means that after morning practice, they’ll go to the Sweden-Austria game to scout out the competition. It’s not Zhenya’s favorite part of hockey, but he accepts it as a necessity in order to play. As he steps into the shower, feeling the water pound away at his back, he can hear two of the guys chirping about how they’ll outscore each other and sneak out to a club because Ishmatov is apparently very lenient after a win.

When they finally make it back to the hotel and Zhenya is crawling into bed, Sasha speaks from his position bundled up in his own blankets. “I still think you’re crazy for not wanting to go out.” Zhenya tenses, fearful of what Sasha might say or ask next. “But you’re a good hockey player, good center. Keep passing to me, and we’ll win for sure.”

Zhenya snorts. Of course Sasha is capable of turning a compliment back around to himself. “Yes, I’ll make sure to set you up for all the easy goals. I’ll do all the work, and you’ll just have to stand around a wait for me to dish it to you.”

Sasha sits up in bed and grabs a pillow that he hurls at Zhenya. “I do work, too. I’m the hardest worker. No one works as hard as me.”

Zhenya snags the pillow to curl around. “Tell yourself whatever you need to so you can sleep at night. He burrows deeper under the covers. “Thank you for the pillow. It’s very comfortable.”

Sasha scoffs and lets out a murmured oath. “You only get to keep it if you keep giving me good passes.”

“Of course,” Zhenya nods, head feeling heavy and clouded with sleep. “I’m the best center, just like you said.”

Sasha utters a few more choice words before falling silent, surrendering to the darkness that Zhenya can feel pulling him under.

\----

They get better with time, settling in as a team thanks to early morning wake-up calls (“Time is precious boys. We’re only here for two weeks, and I won’t let you waste that.”), rough practices, and card games (usually in Zhenya and Sasha’s room) because coach won’t let them go out in the evening and Zhenya is too new to international play to feel comfortable sneaking out.

They get their first win against Sweden, a decent 5-3 score showing that they are capable of taking home the gold. After, most of the team joins them in celebration. Though they are still restricted to the hotel, someone has managed to smuggle in a bottle of cheap vodka and some sodas for mixing. It’s not the best drinks Zhenya has had, but he’ll take it. He’s still pumped from the win, hand thrumming while he remembers some truly beautiful passes between him and Sasha. Soon, he’ll be making those kinds of plays on the ice every night. He loves the boys back home, loves playing for Metallurg, but he knows that the NHL has more to offer. He will be up against the best every other night, and his teammates will be quick enough to keep up with him and smart enough to see the plays he creates on the fly. It is intoxicating to think about that, how much better he will be playing with and against the very best players hockey has to offer from around the world.

Though that might be the vodka making him emotional—more emotional he should say. Zhenya has never been the guy to shy away from tearing up during a sad movie or when a particularly cute animal crosses his path and bathes him in unconditional love. Yes, the vodka is definitely to blame. He shouldn’t have accepted Anshakov’s challenge to match him shot for shot.

“Zhenya,” he hears from his right. It’s nearly drowned out by the raucous laughter of his teammates, who are playing charades. Zhenya has been trying to follow the different rounds but had to step away for another drink, when Semin had mimed giving a blow job and Zhenya had flushed a lurid red. He turns to the voice that had spoken, reflexes dulled by the alcohol ripping through his system.

Sasha is sitting close, eyebrows scrunched in what Zhenya would maybe call concern, but he is not sober enough to parse that out. “I thought you didn’t like parties?”

Zhenya’s brow furrows, as he tries to make sense of the words. “Of course I like parties,” he finally slurs. “Everyone likes parties.”

Sasha’s face morphs into a confusion that mirrors Zhenya’s own. “But on the plane you said you didn’t like to go out, didn’t like to pick up.”

“I don’t.” As the words leave his mouth, Zhenya realizes the miscommunication. “Wait, wait, no.” He holds up a hand and weakly slaps it over Sasha’s mouth. “Wait, I need to think.” Sasha humors him, sitting quiet as Zhenya assembles his thoughts from the vodka fog. “I do like parties. Yes, I do like parties,” he repeats with more confidence. “Parties are good, great. There’s music and dancing and vodka and people to dance with.” Zhenya stops himself at that, biting his tongue to keep from overtalking and revealing too much.

Gently, Sasha removes his hand from his mouth. “So you like parties?”

“Yes.”

“You like parties.” The confusion still lingers in the lines of Sasha’s face.

“Yes, that’s what I said,” Zhenya feels frustrated. His mouth may be slow and uncooperative, but he knows he was able to say enough to explain how much he loves parties and dancing and dancing with people. Well, close to people. He wasn’t stupid enough to actually dance with another man, but in the dark, anonymous crowds at a club, it is easy to bump into those around you and play it off as an accident of too much alcohol or enthusiasm or both.

“You like parties?” It’s a question again, and Zhenya is tired of this. He is maybe just tired in general. The room is starting to turn a little, and he can’t tell which of his teammates is on his hands and knees, doing a shitty impression of a rim job to the consternation of everyone.

“Yes, I like parties.” That’s been established, more than once. He likes parties, likes drinking. He just doesn’t like the women that sidle up to him in short skirts and low-cut tops, reeking of perfume and caked in mascara. They always lay a hand of his forearm, fingers skimming over the muscle, teasing at it in what they probably think is a coy way but just leaves him annoyed and uncomfortable. He inevitably has to come up with some flimsy excuse about not abandoning his teammates or having a strict curfew he can’t break if he wants to stay on the team. He hates that. Why can’t he just drink and dance and have a good time? Why can’t—oh, oh, Zhenya understands now. “I like parties,” he repeats for the millionth time. “Don’t like picking up though. Don’t like meeting someone in some sketchy club and taking them home.”

“You don’t have to take them home though, if that’s the problem. You can just take them to the bathroom, or—”

“Don’t want to take them at all,” Zhenya mumbles furiously. As soon as Sasha leaves him alone, he is going to kick everyone out and collapse in his bed to sleep off the hangover that will probably suck more than he thinks in the morning. “Just want to drink and dance and leave. That’s all.”

Sasha, though admittedly not the most observant, seems to realize Zhenya has had enough of this conversation, so he nods and pats Zhenya’s shoulder, before getting up and telling everyone to head back to their rooms.

It takes longer than Zhenya would like for the team to file out of the room, stumbling over nothing and bumping into the doorway. God, they will all regret this in the morning. He hopes they remember to drink some water before falling asleep.

Sasha is quiet as they get ready for bed, contemplative in a way that worries Zhenya.

After they’ve turned out the lights, Zhenya can hear Sasha’s deep breaths across the space that separates their beds. “It’s okay to be nervous your first time.”

“I’m not nervous,” Zhenya interrupts, unwilling to hear anymore from a well-meaning, drunk Sasha. Fuck, this will suck so much tomorrow when he wakes with a splitting headache and the certainty that he said too much. Damn Sasha and his persistence. Damn coach for sticking them together. Damn this whole tournament. Zhenya was comfortable with the guys back home. He had been around them at the rink as he made his way up through the ranks of Magnitogorsk’s local teams. They didn’t ask him any questions about why he didn’t chat up girls at the bar or take one home after a victory. They left him be, joking that it was good of Zhenya to be cautious, otherwise he would end up with some fame-hungry one-night stand that would take embarrassing pictures and threaten to publish them once Zhenya had made it in the NHL. It’s a ridiculous story, Zhenya knows that, but he doesn’t disagree because it’s easier to let them believe the lie rather than disclose the truth.

Sasha doesn’t know the lie though. He hasn’t been around to see Zhenya politely turn down the clingy women and catch a cab home or to the hotel on his own. He hasn’t gotten used to Zhenya’s strange behavior.

“Whatever you say,” Sasha grumbles and rolls over, shifting until he finds a comfortable position.

\----

Zhenya wakes with a dull throb in his head and the taste of shit in his mouth. The light filtering in through the half-closed blinds is faint, and Zhenya flips onto his stomach to get back to sleep. Out of the corner of his eye, he catches sight of the clock on the nightstand, the luminescent red numbers telling him he will need to be up, dressed, and on the bus in twenty minutes. 

He swears as he throws himself out of bed, sheets and blankets tangling around his legs and causing him to crash to the floor, face on the ground with his feet still lost somewhere in the covers.

Sasha groans from his bed, head stuffed under the pillows. “Too loud, Zhenya. Be quiet, and let me sleep.”

Tugging at the twisted blankets, Zhenya struggles to free himself and stand up. “Get up, Sasha. We’re late.” He scrambles for his tracksuit and tries to ignore the smell of liquor that had been split on it during the previous night’s festivities.

“Late?” Sasha asks, pulling his head from its hiding place, hair in complete disarray. “We can’t be late. It’s still dark outside.”

Back in yesterday’s clothes, Zhenya shoves his feet into the nearest pair of sandals, which might in fact be Sasha’s. “Sun doesn’t rise until 8:30 or 9. It’s 8:13 now, so if you want to wait for sunrise, be my guest, but coach won’t let you play if you do.”

It takes a moment for the words to sink into Sasha’s sleep-addled, hungover brain, and Zhenya has to bite back a laugh when his friend finally understands. He tumbles out of bed, only marginally more graceful than Zhenya had been.

“We should have set an alarm,” he complains, fishing for his Team Russia shirt that had been stuffed behind the mirror for some apparently brilliant reason last night. He piles his still damp gear into his bag and zips it up, hefting it over his shoulder as he turns to Zhenya. “Do you think everyone is awake?”

Zhenya understands the underlying question and heaves a sigh. If they are lucky, at least half the team will be awake and ready to head to the rink for morning skate before the game that night. Most guys, though, are probably still out cold from exhaustion and hangovers, so they will need to make sure they are awake, which will mean they won’t have time to eat a real breakfast and will have to grab some fruit and bread to eat on the bus. Resigning himself to the inevitable, Zhenya nods toward the door, and they make their way down the hallway, banging on teammates’ doors until they hear enough movement to confirm they are up and aware of the time.

Ten minutes later, everyone is on the bus, some more disheveled and hungover than others but present nonetheless. Ishmatov had sighed when Zhenya and Sasha had climbed onto the bus, hands full of apples, bananas, and rather dry bread. He had looked on the verge of a scathing lecture, but as more boys had spilled from the hotel doors, some still pulling on shirts or shoes, he had settled back into his seat in disgruntled resignation.

Practice isn’t the worst, though Ishmatov clearly wishes he could bag skate them into the ground for being stupid, reckless teenagers, but the approaching game stops him. Zhenya has never been more grateful for a practice to end. His head is still pounding, and if he goes without food for much longer, he is certain his stomach will just eat itself.

The ride back to the hotel is nearly silent, and as they pull into the hotel parking lot, Ishmatov stands and turns to level them with a glare.

“I hope you all regret last night’s little party and that you don’t have a repeat performance until this tournament is over and we have medals around our necks. Get some food into your systems. God only knows when the last time most of you ate a full meal was. Then get some sleep. I don’t want to hear any wandering feet in the hall, and I expect you all to be back on this bus at 16:30 not looking like death.” He doesn’t wait for a response, just spins on his heel and exits the bus.

As the managers and trainers file out, Sasha stands and turns back to address the team. “Coach is right. There is still a lot of hockey to play this week and next. If we want to take home the gold, we have to stay focused. After though,” and he smirks, “we’ll throw a party no one can remember.”

A cheer goes up through the bus, and they pile out talking about how much they plan to eat, each boy claiming a more improbable amount than the last.

Sasha bumps shoulders with Zhenya. “And no picking up at the party,” he whispers softly enough that no one can overhear, and Zhenya breath catches. Sasha may be one of the loudest, brashest people he has ever met, but in this moment, Zhenya can see the player and leader Sasha has the potential to be, even if he seems like any other young, dumb kid with too much talent right now.

“No, but plenty of drinks and lots of dancing,” Zhenya agrees, accepting the words for the apology they are. “And I promise I won’t make fun of you too much when you fail to find anyone willing to ignore your ugly face long enough to hook up.”

Sasha scoffs and shoves Zhenya away. “I have the most beautiful face you will ever see, dear Zhenya. Don’t take it for granted.”

Laughing so hard his shoulders shake, Zhenya pushes past Sasha to enter their room and drop his bag to the floor. “You’re not quite my type, Sasha,” Zhenya jokes.

“It’s not about types but beauty. I don’t have to be anyone’s type for them to find me beautiful.”

Zhenya takes back everything nice he has ever thought about Sasha because he might just be the most absurd, over-confident person Zhenya has ever met, and he can’t help but chirp him for it, mercilessly. So he does, coming up with increasingly creative comparisons between Sasha’s face and various body parts, animals, and natural disasters throughout a big lunch ordered at a local café.

Once they are back at the hotel, preparing for their pregame nap, Sasha threatens him with a pillow, promising pain and suffering, delivered through cotton and down.

“Am I supposed to be afraid? You play hockey, Sasha. You can’t throw to save your life.”

Glowering from his sprawled position, Sasha responds, “I won’t throw it this time. I’ll just use it to smother you, so you’ll stop talking. I don’t need to be able to throw it; I just have to be strong enough to hold it over your big mouth, which I am.”

Zhenya now recognizes the words for what they are, an empty threat. “If you killed me, you wouldn’t have anyone to give you pretty passes. No one else is willing to deal with a winger as picky as you.”

“Picky?” Sasha cries. “I’m not picky. I’m just right.”

“Whatever you say,” Zhenya responds, sliding under the covers after triple-checking that the alarm and back-up alarm are set.

“I’m not picky,” Sasha grumbles flops onto his bed. “I just want things done right.”

“Your right or mine?”

Sasha faces scrunches up in a hideous look of contemplation. “Is there a difference? Right is right, no?”

“No.”

Sasha’s response is drowned out, as Zhenya throws a pillow over his own head to get some quiet. He desperately needs sleep if he wants to play well tonight. Winning this game guarantees them a position in the quarterfinals, so they have to play hard.

And they do. It is not the blowout it should have been, coach is quick to remind them. Austria had not even managed to score against the US or Sweden, and the margin of victory was large and decisive in those matches. They had allowed Austria to cling to hope until the end, barely eking out a 3-1 victory and clinching their spot in elimination play.

After coach exits the locker room, Sasha climbs onto a chair and calls everyone to attention, arms waving so wildly Zhenya fears he is going tip himself right back to the ground.

“We still have work to do,” and Zhenya wonders when Sasha had decided to appoint himself captain, “and coach would have all our asses if we try to repeat last night.” Zhenya sees several of the boys go a bit green in the face at the mention of last night. He had successfully held his liquor, but it wouldn’t surprise him if some had not been so lucky. He was just happy no one had puked in his room. “However, since we don’t have a game for two more days and we only have practice tomorrow morning, coach said we could go out tomorrow afternoon, as long as everyone is in their rooms by ten tonight and at the USA game tomorrow.” A cheer went up through the room at the prospect of some down time to just explore the city.

Zhenya had known he wasn’t coming to Finland as a tourist, but that hadn’t stopped him from looking up different attractions, and he had seen some pictures of a castle that might be fun to go explore. Though hockey had always been his main focus—to the eternal chagrin of his mama—he had enjoyed history classes and probably would have gone on to study it at university, if hockey hadn’t worked out, so a castle dating back to the 1300s peaks his interests.

“Zhenya and I,” he tunes back into Sasha’s chatter at the mention of his name, “will be going to scout out the best places to—”

“No, no,” Zhenya interrupts, certain Sasha is on the brink of committing Zhenya to an afternoon spent in the small town center, watching the girls walk by and deciding who would be the most fun in bed. “I’m going to the castle.”

Sasha looks bemused, as if he isn’t used to anyone disagreeing with him, especially not in front of other people.

“Castle?” Semin asks.

“Yes, Häme Castle.” Zhenya can see he has the room’s attention. He had planned to go to the castle alone, or maybe with Sasha if he was feeling particularly generous, but he can tell his plans are about to change to include far more rowdy, rambunctious teenagers than he had anticipated. “It’s not too far from the hotel and is supposed to have some really cool stuff.”

“Stuff?” Sasha repeats skeptically.

He had hoped his piss poor description would dissuade his teammates from asking any more questions, but that was a waste with Sasha in the room.

“Yes,” Zhenya replies, switching tactics and deciding to make this a team-bonding activity or something. “Like gun walls and old weapons they used in war before cannons and guns came around,” and that gets heads raised and eyes lit with excitement.

“Like swords and maces?” Grot asks, suddenly invested in the conversation he had previously ignored in favor of picking at his laces.

“Yes, like swords and maces.”

“Cool,” Grot says, as the team nods along.

And that is how Zhenya finds himself walking through the red brick arch of the outer wall with his whole team trailing behind, exclaiming over the size of the castle and joking about stealing some swords for a duel. He expects this visit to consist of a lot of yelling to not touch things and pulling his more foolish teammates away from the stout ramparts that give way to thirty meter drops.

Despite several close calls, especially when Sasha hands his camera off the nearest guy and scrambles up a wall for a picture he cannot resist, Zhenya enjoys himself, though he does feel bad for the manager that Ishmatov had sent to babysit them.

He likes to look at the various armor from different centuries and see how it has changed with advances in technology and craftsmanship and wonders what it would have been like to live in the time of castles and kingdoms. Each time he pulls on his gear before a game, he feels a bit like a knight preparing for a fight, and hockey is kind of a battle.

“Looks kind of like hockey gear, doesn’t it?”

Zhenya startles at the question, head snapping to the side where Sasha has paused to look at some fifteenth century armor with him.

“See,” Sasha gestures at the gleaming silver. “They have pads for protection and jerseys, too,” he says with a wave of his hand toward the colorful surcoats in a neighboring display. “And the swords are their sticks.”

Zhenya nods, wondering if Sasha is a bit smarter than Zhenya has given him credit for.

“This was a good choice, Zhenya,” Sasha says, placing a warm hand on his shoulder and giving it a gently squeeze. “It’s nice to do something fun as a team besides hockey, makes us friends instead of just teammates.”

“Who said we were friends?” Zhenya smirks. “I only talk to you because I have to.”

Sasha sputters, as Zhenya walks away to the next set of shiny armor, stopping to read the plaque explaining its origin and design, a habit that had quickly led his teammates to abandon him because he went too slowly. He didn’t mind the chirps about being an old man who would need to go down for a nap soon, content to stroll from one display to the next without hovering teammates asking when they will move on and whether or not it is acceptable to pick up the weapons—it’s not.

All in all, Zhenya would consider the afternoon a success, and as he prepares for the game the next day, he can’t help but laugh when Sasha loudly complains that he wasn’t able to receive a token from his lady that he could wear into battle before leaving Moscow.

“If you actually had a lady before this tournament, she won’t be there when you get back, not with all your talk of picking up and one night stands,” Krikunov hollers from his locker.

Sasha tosses his head back and clutches at his heart, a dramatic move made comic by the bulk of his pads. “You wound me with your words, Ilya. No woman would ever be foolish enough to leave this.” He then drags his hand down his chest in what he surely believes to be a sensual manner but looks more like an attempt to wipe something off his fingers.

“No woman would ever be foolish enough to want that,” Zhenya points out, rising and swatting at Sasha with his stick. “But you have the colors of our lady Russia. What more could you need to bring you luck?”

A cheer bursts from around them at the reminder that they are here to play for their country, that they wear their nation’s colors and name across their chests.

There is something special about international play, something wholly unique that Zhenya feels each time he tugs on a jersey stamped with the double-headed eagle. He loves his country and his people, is proud to represent them on an international stage, and he wants to prove that they are the best, that Canada and the US cannot hold a flame to the Russian national team.

\----

The increased sense of patriotism is not enough to help them overcome their foes, and they fall to the US, 4-1. Zhenya is devastated at the loss. If they hadn’t pulled themselves together enough to score one goal in the third period, it would have been a shutout, and that would have been more than Zhenya could bear. Bad enough to lose to the goddamn USA, but to do so without tallying a single point would have been too much.

The atmosphere in the locker room is somber, the energy of pregame burned out after three periods of hard, fast hockey.

Ishmatov is watching them, cool blue eyes assessing.

“We will talk about this tomorrow,” he says, finally breaking the silence that had threatened to suffocate the room. Bowed heads lift in surprise. “We need to be on our way to Helsinki in the next half hour if we don’t want to get there too late. Shower and get changed; bus leaves in thirty minutes.”

No one says much as they strip off their gear and head to the showers. Even Sasha is silent in the wake of that defeat.

Zhenya tries to think of something to say that will chase the darkness from Sasha’s features. He can almost hear him berating himself for every missed pass and botched shot that might have turned things around, if he had made it. Those sorts of thoughts do no good in moments like this.

“We beat Finland in the quarterfinals, and we’ll see them again in the semis for some revenge,” he offers. “We’ll shut them out and send them back home with their tails between their legs.”

Sasha musters a faint smile and nods. “Yes, we’ll do that.”


	2. Chapter 2

“Can I talk to Taylor real quick?”

Sid only has a few minutes before he needs to be in his billet family’s car, heading for the airport to catch a flight to Toronto to meet up with the rest of the Juniors team before flying to Helsinki. He feels bad, taking his billet dad away from his wife on Christmas Eve, but he has assured Sid multiple times that it isn’t a problem.

“She’s busy,” his mom answers, voice hesitant over the phone.

“Busy,” Sid repeats. “She’s seven years-old. What could she be doing right now that can’t wait until later?”

The silence tells him everything he needs to know.

“Right.” He can feel tears pooling in his eyes and blocking his throat.

“I’m so sorry, sweetheart,” his mom says, letting out a shaky breath. “I really am. I’ve tried talking to her about it, you know, to help her see that she’s being ridiculous, but she’s so stubborn. She’ll regret it tomorrow when you aren’t here to open presents, and she wants to talk to you but can’t because she missed her chance.”

The reminder that he is missing another Christmas hurts, and he understands why Taylor is too upset to talk to him, but that doesn’t help him feel any better. “It’s fine. I know she’s mad at me. Just tell her I love her and that I’ll see her in a few months.”

“I’ll do that.” She pauses, as if weighing her next words. “Travel safely, honey, and good luck in the tournament.”

“Thanks, Mom. I’ll call when I get back.”

“And have fun!” she reminds him before leaving him with a final goodbye and another apology for Taylor’s behavior.

Once the call has disconnected, Sid slumps down on his bed, suitcase beside him. Taylor’s anger hurts, especially because there is nothing he can do about it. Hockey is his life and his future, and he can’t afford to turn down invitations to international tournaments, especially a year and a half away from his draft. He just wishes it wasn’t one or the other, hockey or his family.

“Sidney!” his billet dad, Christian, calls from downstairs. “We need to get on the road before the weather gets much worse.”

“Be right there!” he shouts, throwing a few random things in his suitcase before zipping it shut and hauling it off the bed. He looks around the room to make sure he hasn’t forgotten anything important and makes his way to the entry where his billet parents and Eric await.

His billet mom fusses over his hat and scarf, securing them so he doesn’t get too cold, and stuffs a tinfoil packet in his hand. “I know you don’t really eat sweets, but I though you could use these.”

He knows it’s a couple of her gingerbread cookies, fresh from the oven, and he feels too raw, cut up from Taylor’s snubbing, to do anything but nod his thanks and shove the cookies in his hoodie pocket.

“Have fun,” she tells him, wrapping him in a warm hug.

“Good luck, man,” Eric says and holds his hand out for a fist bump, before Sid and Christian step outside.

The snow is coming down hard, coating everything in a thick layer of white. His billet dad has the car cleared off and running, so it’s only a matter of stuffing Sid’s suitcase into the trunk and they’re on their way.

“How’s your family?”

It’s a simple question, innocuous and friendly, but Sid feels too sensitive right now, heart aching. “Good,” he responds, and he should make more of an effort, should engage with this man who has been nothing but kind to him, but he can’t. He doesn’t want to talk about his family, doesn’t want to think about them preparing for Christmas Eve dinner or wrapping up the last of the presents to go under the tree, none of which will be addressed to him.

“Good, that’s good,” and Christian seems to understand that he’s not going to get anything more out of Sid because the rest of the drive is silent, nothing but slick roads and snow-covered houses stretching around them for miles in this small city.

“You can just drop me off at departures,” Sid says, as they approach the airport. “It’ll be quicker.”

Christian sighs and glances over as Sid, who refuses to make eye contact. “If you’re sure.”

“I’m sure,” Sid reassures him before he even has time to finish.

When they pull up to the curb, he hops out of the car and throws the trunk open, reaching for his gear bag and suitcase, one hand for each. They’re awkward and unwieldy, but he muscles them out, tossing his gear over his shoulder and letting the suitcase thump to the ground so he can roll it in. He turns to Christian and goes in for a quick, one-armed hug.

“I’m sorry you have to be away from your family again,” Christian whispers into the air between them.

Sid pulls back like he’s been burned and gathers his suitcase close. “Merry Christmas.”

“Merry Christmas, Sidney.” He looks on the verge of saying something else, but Sid doesn’t want any more reassurances or comfort or meaningless words that won’t make his sister talk to him again, so he strides away, suitcase dragging behind him and bag thumping heavily against his legs.

He checks in and finds his gate without a problem, too used to airports and flights at this point for it to be difficult. The airport is empty, a bare bones staff guiding people onto planes and working at small coffee shops that boast nutmeg lattés and cinnamon spice hot chocolate.

It’s not long before he’s in his seat, squished between a woman who is talking loudly into her phone about the fresh cranberries someone needs to pick up if they don’t want to ruin dinner and a man who is already nodding off in his fancy suit. He settles in, arms and legs pulled in tight so he doesn’t bump into either of the strangers.

It’s a quick flight, barely more than an hour, and as soon as they are on the ground again, the woman is back on her phone, asking if someone remembered to grab a couple bottles of the white wine she liked because Christmas Eve dinner wouldn’t be complete without it. The person must have answered in the negative because the woman launches into a rant about how important it is to have the right wine. Sid leans closer to the now-awake man, as the woman begins to wave her arms expressively, explaining that a Merlot and a Moscato were not interchangeable.

When the flight crew gives them the all-clear to unbuckle and open the overhead bins, Sid hurries to his feet, impatient to get away from the frustrated woman and the baby that has started crying four rows back. It takes ages for the crowded aisle to empty enough that he can exit his row and sidle down the aisle and into the tunnel leading out.

He welcomes the space provided by the large terminal and pulls out his tickets, looking for his next boarding gate. It isn’t too far, and when he gets close enough, he can see a couple guys in the bright red tracksuits each of them were sent.

“If it isn’t the little protégé himself!” someone calls when they catch sight of Sid, and he feels a blush rise in his cheeks.

“Sidney Crosby in the flesh,” another says, throwing an arm around Sid and dragging him into the loose circle of hockey players. “Welcome to the team, man. That’s Max Talbot and Marc Fleury, the unfortunately French part of this team,” and the two guys start to holler, defending Quebec and the beautiful French language. “Those are the Brents, Seabrook and Burns,” he continues, talking over the angry French being thrown at him. “That’s Jeff Carter, and I’m Ryan Getzlaf.”

Sid looks over the assembled group, doing his best to take in names and faces. “It’s nice to meet you all.”

Getzlaf laughs. “So polite, dude,” and he ruffles Sid’s hair. “I can’t believe you got called up. Aren’t you like twelve?”

“Sixteen,” Sid corrects and holds back a sigh. God, he hopes this isn’t how the whole tournament is going to go. He knows he’s young; he’s been the youngest guy for years and has received his fair share of teasing and jokes.

“Right, so you’re still not even legal to drink. Man that sucks.”

Sid ducks out from Getzlaf’s arm with a forced smile and shuffles to the side, putting some distance between them. “Yeah, don’t let me stop you from having a good time, though.”

Getzlaf laughs and turns to talk to Carter, going off about some bars in Helsinki a teammate had recommended, and Sid breathes out, relief coursing through him. That wasn’t so bad, he thinks.

“You play for Rimouski, yes?” asks a heavily accented voice, and Sid turns to see the two Quebecois guys looking at him.

“Yeah, this is my first season with them,” Sid responds and takes a step closer, finding comfort in the heavy French accents that have become familiar to him over the past few months.

_“So you speak French?” _he asks, slipping into the language that is clearly more comfortable for him.

_“Yes, but not good,” _Sid tells him, lips still struggling to form the strange sounds.

The guy smiles. _“But you are learning. That’s very good. I’m sure they love you in Rimouski. Not only are you great on the ice, but you are making an effort to speak their language as well.” _He sounds genuine, and Sid decides he already like him more than Getzlaf and his brash humor. _“I’m Marc Fleury, by the way. This is Max Talbot.”_

Sid reaches out for a handshake, nodding to them both. “Sidney Crosby.”

_“You’re really only sixteen?” _Max asks, the questions fueled more by curiosity than mockery.

_“Seventeen in August.”_

Marc and Max burst into laughter, loud and raucous but friendly. _“Sidney, my friend,” _Marc says, placing a hand on Sid’s shoulder, _“August was just a few months ago. You’re closer to sixteen than seventeen, so you’re not doing yourself any favors pointing out your next birthday, eight months from now.”_

Sid blushes again, feeling the heat rise in his cheeks and knowing his face is now as red as his Team Canada jacket. Looking at Marc and Max, he shrugs, and they smile good-naturedly.

_“We don’t care if you’re young,” _Max reassures him. _“If you beat out older guys for a spot on the team, then you must be pretty damn good, and you can help us bring home a gold medal.”_

_“Yes,” _Marc agrees, _“age is just a number after all.”_

Max snorts and mocks him for trying to be too philosophical, and Marc snipes back about Max being too dumb to understand anything past an elementary level. They bicker back and forth, pulling Sid into their congenial arguments, each trying to convince him why they are right. The humorous exchange goes on until the entire team has arrived, each attired in Canada gear, which has attracted plenty of attention from random travelers who wish them luck.

Durocher, the returning coach, hollers for their attention as the flight crew announces boarding procedures will begin soon. “Welcome to the team, boys. I am sorry to be taking you away from holidays with friends and family and girlfriends,” someone groans in agreement, “so let’s make it worthwhile by winning the gold. We will get to Helsinki at eight in the morning and will drop suitcases at the hotel before heading to the rink, so make sure to get some real sleep on the flight unless you want to be dead on your feet during practice tomorrow, and I wouldn’t recommend that.”

The unspoken threat has all the guys nodding agreement. Sid will be impressed if any of them actually manage more than a few, sporadic hours of sleep, too excited about the tournament and too squished to find a good position.

When they board the plane, Sid is happy to find himself seated next to Max with Marc just a row behind, having been unsuccessful in his attempts to convince Richards to trade him seats. He makes himself comfortable, plugging in the airline issued headphones to see what movie has been chosen for the transatlantic trip.

Sometime after they pass over PEI, he drifts off to the sound of Marc’s mindless chatter and Max’s thick snores. He sleeps fitfully, waking every hour or so to shift before he gets too much of a crick in his neck, and finds the plane quieter than he expected. Coach’s threat must have been more convincing than Sid thought.

They land in Helsinki, and when Sid lifts the blinds from the window, he is greeted by darkness that is only just beginning to fade into the grey of pre-dawn.

Once they’ve deplaned and recovered their suitcases and bags, Durocher waves them outside to a waiting bus that will take them to the hotel and then to the rink for their first practice together. Sid sticks close to Marc and Max, as they pile onto the bus and drive through the streets of Helsinki.

There are lights strung up on every lamppost, spanning the streets in uniform swoops, sometimes accompanied by an evergreen garland and red and gold ornaments. Sid thinks he catches sight of a tree down one street, but they pass too quickly to be sure.

As they pull up in front of the hotel, same nondescript building as every other hotel Sid has stayed in, he feels a weight settle in his stomach, dread spreading through him as he thinks about room assignments. Wishing he gets paired with Marc or Max is overly optimistic on his part, but he still hopes for someone who won’t be a total asshole to him.

When Durocher asks for silence, Sid crosses his fingers and prays that he gets a decent roommate that won’t hassle him about his weird habits or mock him for his age. He watches Max and Marc both get paired with other guys and decides he’ll take anyone but Getzlaf at this point.

“Crosby and Seabrook,” he shouts, and Sid looks around, trying to remember who the hell Seabrook is. He thinks that’s one of the Brents, but he can’t be sure; there are too many new names to remember, too many faces he doesn’t know yet.

“Hey, man,” a voice calls from his right. “I know Getzlaf did introductions earlier, but it’s a lot to keep up with. I’m Brent Seabrook.”

Sid accepts the hand extended to him. “Sidney Crosby,” he answers.

The guy, Brent, snorts. “Yeah, I know. Looks like Durocher’s shaking things up with room assignments, putting us together.”

Sid’s brow furrows. What was Brent expecting? Someone closer to his age? Someone easier to live with? Did he already not like Sid? He didn’t seem like a rude guy, and his face was placid as he looked over the various roommate pairings. “What do you mean?”

“You’re a center, aren’t you?” Sid nods. “I play defense. I would have expected Durocher to stick me with another d-man and you with another forward, but maybe he’s pushing for more team unity,” Brent says with a thoughtful look on his face, “or maybe he doesn’t want any of us killing each other because we have to eat, sleep, and play on the same line together.”

Sid frowns in thought, before shrugging. “I’ve managed to not kill my road roommate back home.”

Brent laughs, loud and full, and it shocks Sid for a moment before he joins in. “Thank God for that, eh? My chances of surviving the next two weeks just went up. “

“Were you worried you wouldn’t?”

Brent shoots him a conspiratory look. “Oh, absolutely. Before every tournament or new season, I have this awful nightmare about getting stuck rooming with a goalie, and it never ends well for me, man.”

Sid doesn’t know whether it’s true or not, doesn’t know Brent well enough to recognize his sense of humor, but he decides it doesn’t matter. Whether he is telling the truth or making the dream up, Brent is making a joke like any friend would, and Sid laughs.

“Don’t hate on goalies too much, man,” Sid says, nudging him. “My dad was a goalie.”

Smirking, Brent looks at Sid. “Well, that explains a lot.” He nudges Sid back, more gently than expected. “Lucky for me, you didn’t follow in his footsteps.”

“I tried and realized I like shooting the puck a lot more than I like stopping it.”

Brent bursts into laughter. “That’s a good sign. Means you’re not totally crazy.”

Sid laughs as well and feels himself relax just a little. Maybe this won’t be too bad. Brent seems like a decent guy; he hasn’t made any cracks about Sid’s age or size, even though Brent towers over him and has a good twenty or thirty pounds on him.

They grab their room key from one of the managers and make their way inside and up to their floor. The room looks like every other room Sid has had to stay in during tournaments or road trips, and the familiar monotony relaxes him.

“Do you care which bed you get?” Sid asks nervously. He would really prefer the one closest to the window, but he knows Brent has seniority over him and might use it to get the bed he wants.

“Nah, man. I’m good with whatever. You?”

Biting down on a sigh of relief, Sid walks to the further bed and tosses his suitcase down. “I’ll take this one.”

“Cool,” Brent says, dropping his own bag. “You need the bathroom or anything before we go?”

“No.” Sid knows it’s a bad habit, but he tries to not drink too much while flying because he hates the tiny airplane bathrooms with their odd folding doors and the toilets that flush with a huge sucking sound. “Let’s get downstairs.”

Brent sits beside him on the bus over to the rink, and though he doesn’t say much, Sid can’t help but be grateful for his quiet presence, which is better than sitting alone like he did on the ride to the hotel.

Once they hit the ice, Sid feels something inside him settle. Out here he doesn’t have to worry about what anyone thinks of him , doesn’t have to worry about being the youngest—the baby—on the team because he can show how good he is; he can prove that he earned his spot just like every other guy here.

Durocher puts them through their paces, running endless drills and sending them to the line for sprints when they don’t do something right or fast enough. It’s a familiar routine: the scrape of skates on ice, the snap of a puck hitting tape, and the high ping of a shot off the crossbar. Sid can feel himself falling into the rhythm of practice and relishes the burn in his muscles as he pushes himself harder to be the first guy to the puck, the first one across the goal line as coach has them doing suicides.

In the locker room, he gets a couple pats on the back as guys welcome him to the team, and he feels a warm weight settle in his chest, knowing he has shown he deserves to be there just as much as the next guy.

“Alright boys,” Durcoher hollers, waving to get their attention. “That was a good practice. Plenty of room for improvement, but not bad for the first time. We’ll have another one tomorrow morning before playing Finland at six thirty.

“Now, since today is Christmas, I am giving you the rest of the day off,” a couple guys let out loud whoops of joy, “but I expect everyone to be back in their rooms by ten tonight, and no one better show up hungover tomorrow morning, got it?” There’re some groans, and Sid rolls his eyes. He enjoys a beer, will indulge every now and then in a glass of wine when it’s someone’s birthday or a holiday, but it’s stupid to get drunk the night before a game. “I don’t want to hear it. When you’ve got gold medals around your necks, you can drink as much as you want, but until then, keep it reasonable. I’m not going to let the Russians steal the top spot from us again, and I’m sure that all of you returning from last year feel the same.” His words have an instantly sobering effect on the room, and the few guys who have returned to the team duck their heads, embarrassed. “That’s what I thought. Now, shower and get changed. Bus leaves at noon.”

As soon as coach is out the door, Getzlaf is standing in his stall, yelling for everyone to shut the hell up and listen. “For those of us who are legal,” he begins, and Sid feels a sick dread well up in his stomach, “or who can pass as legal,” he continues, and a few of the guys laugh, “I know a few bars and clubs we’re hitting up tonight. We’ll head out at eight, so do whatever you want before then, and don’t wear your fucking tracksuits when we got out, eh.”

Stewart high fives Getzlaf, as he hops down from his impromptu stage, and Sid hurries into the showers, taking the furthest one and hoping no one will heckle him about going out—not that he would want to, but choosing not to go out would be a whole lot less chirp-worthy than not being able to go out because he’s too young. Ducked under the spray, Sid holds back a groan when he hears the shower beside his come on.

_“Getzlaf’s a dick.”_

Sid turns to see Marc and Max and mentally retracts his earlier groan. _“Yeah, he is.”_

Marc grins at him. _“It’s his first year on the team, but he acts like he owns the place. And he’s probably rude to you because he’s intimidated by someone two years younger than him making the team, too.”_

Sid shrugs and pours some shampoo into his hair. He knows he’s good at hockey, has known for years as he’s moved through the ranks, always playing with older guys, but he tries not to make a big deal out of it because he doesn’t want or need any more attention—hate—than he already gets.

Face twisted in confusion, Marc squints at him, as if he’s trying to understand but doesn’t _“Anyways,”_ he goes on, “w_e’re gonna go out after lunch, see what Helsinki has to offer, maybe pick up some souvenirs if any of the shops are open, and we’ll come back and play cards or watch TV or something afterwards. You up for it?”_

_“Yeah, that’s fine.” _Sid can see Brent enter and take one of the showers not too far from them. _“Can my roommate come, too?”_

_“Can he speak French?” _Max responds, eyebrow raised.

_“Uh, I don’t know.” _He hasn’t asked where Brent’s from, but his accent sounds more western, probably Alberta or BC, so he’s going to guess Brent hasn’t got much more than a few pleasantries in his vocabulary.

Marc and Max exchange a look. _“Fine,” _Max huffs. _“We can teach him some.”_

Apparently, Sid has found himself in exclusive company with the help of his sorry French. _“He’s a good guy,” _Sid promises, shutting off his shower and grabbing a towel. _“Are you eating lunch at the hotel or in the city?” _

_“City,” _they answer, immediately.

Sid raises an eyebrow, and Marc shrugs. _“Room service is okay, but I bet we can find something cooler on our own.”_

_“Okay.” _Sid wraps the towel around his waist and returns to the locker room to pull on something clean. When Brent comes back, hair dripping, Sid looks over at him. “Hey,” he greets.

Brent nods. “Hey, you were good out there,” he says. “I can see why they picked you.”

“Oh,” Sid says, stumbling over himself at the unexpected compliment. He thinks Brent might be going a bit out of his way to make sure Sid feels like he’s supposed to be here, especially with Getzlaf across the way, laughing at something Stewart said, both of them indiscreetly side-eyeing him. “Thanks, you too.”

Brent nods again and starts to pull on one of the many Team Canada shirts they were all sent when named to the team.

“So, Marc and Max asked if we wanted to go out this afternoon and see some of Helsinki,” Sid tells him, easily changing the invitation to include them both. “You down?”

Brent glances at him. “Sure, beats being stuck in the hotel all afternoon. What’s the plan?”

“I don’t think they really have one beyond finding somewhere to eat and buying souvenirs.” Sid is sure the front desk at the hotel has brochures and maps they could take to guide them.

“I’m always down for food. Can Josh come?” he asks, tilting his head to a guy a few stall over, who looks up at his name. Sid thinks they were maybe paired up in practice, but he can’t be sure.

“I don’t see why not,” he says. “I think they’re planning on heading out right after we get back to the hotel.”

“Cool.”

They finish changing and climb onto the bus waiting outside.

After laying out their sweaty gear to dry, they make sure they have their wallets and warmer jackets, before braving the cold Finnish winter to find a good place to eat. They’re a strange bunch: Marc and Max speaking rapid French, Brent and Josh silently following behind, and Sid walking in the middle of them all, somehow the liaison between the English and French halves of the group, despite his limited abilities.

They had stopped by the front desk on their way out, collecting maps and pamphlets about the different places to visit in Helsinki and getting a restaurant recommendation from the receptionist. It’s a small café, not too far from the hotel. It looks warm and inviting, and Sid wonders if he should indulge himself in a hot chocolate. It is Christmas after all, and he had shared the gingerbread cookies with Max and Marc yesterday, so he hadn’t had too much sugar himself.

The food is delicious, just as good as the receptionist had promised it would be, and Sid savors the small hot chocolate he had allowed himself, cradling it in his hands for warmth, as he listens to Max and Marc try to teach Brent and Josh some French swears. Their pronunciation is terrible, but Sid knows his isn’t much better.

When their dishes have been cleared, Marc announces it is time to leave. “The woman told me little is open, but there is still plenty to see in Market Square. We could look at the shops and find ones we like and come back when they’re open.”

They shrug their agreement and shuffle out the door into the chill afternoon air, cutting through the pristine, glittering blanket of snow that had fallen during their practice. There are more people out than Sid had expected, bundled up families strolling around and young couples cuddled up on benches.

“Damn,” Josh says, pulling Sid out of his thoughts. “Check her out.”

He’s pointing to a tall, skinny blonde and nodding appreciatively as the girl bends over to help a little boy, probably her brother, retie his shoe.

“Those legs,” Brent agrees and lets out a low whistle. “Finnish girls aren’t too bad, eh?”

Marc shrugs. “She’s alright.”

“Alright?” Josh repeats, incredulous. “She is way more than alright, man. Look at her. She’s hot.”

“You won’t change his opinion,” Max chimes in. “Marc’s got a girl back home, so he doesn’t know how to appreciate the beauty of other women.”

“Not true. That girl is fine, but she is not as beautiful as Véro because no one is as beautiful as Véro.” His words are met with hoots from Brent and Josh, who begin to rib him for being a total sap, chirping him about how whipped he is, but Marc just brushes them off. “You don’t know her. She is absolutely worth it.”

Ignoring the laughter that garners, Sid watches the girl grab the little boy’s hand and walk him over to a storefront with a Christmas village on display, excitedly pointing out the small train that circles the houses. She seems nice, friendly, but Sid can hardly call her hot. He doesn’t know her, doesn’t know if she’s always kind to her brother or if she is different at home. He doesn’t know her name, her likes and dislikes, her goals in life. She’s a complete stranger, and Sid doesn’t understand how the guys can look at her and decide whether they would like her or not.

“Look at that!” Max suddenly interjects, cutting Brent off as he teases a furiously blushing Marc. “The hats are awesome.” The store looks like it was made for tourists, boasting authentic Finnish chocolate and traditional clothing. The hat is interesting. It’s tall with vivid shades of red and blue and a handful of ribbons that cascade down in the back. Sid would never want to wear that, but Max seems enthused, telling everyone they have to come back to buy that hat.

For the rest of the afternoon, they wander through Market Square and the side streets, stopping for a snack at a small bakery that smells too good to resist and trying to not get lost in the maze of streets. Marc finds a jewelry store that he decides they must come back to because Véro would love one of the pretty necklaces glittering in the window; he informs them they should all get something there for their mothers or sisters, which stops the chirps Josh and Brent were about to throw his way.

It’s a pleasant day, and Sid feels settled when they make it back to the hotel, confident that he has a place on the team beyond his name on the roster. Even Getzlaf’s thinly-veiled jabs aren’t enough to spoil his mood during the team dinner.

\----

The next morning has Sid humming with nerves and anticipation, anxious to get out on the ice and show everyone that he deserves to be in Finland, representing his country. Brent is quiet throughout the day, gaze focused and intent as he prepares for the game. Sid appreciates the silence, the way Brent just lets him do his thing without asking questions or making fun of him for his excessive superstitions.

“Alright boys, listen up,” Durocher says once everyone is padded up and ready to hit the ice. “Finland has put together a good group this year, and as the home team, they will be working their asses off for a medal. They’re going to come out hard, and they’re going to have the crowd behind them. Don’t let it get to you. We have all the talent, all the skill needed to beat them, so let’s go out there and show them that we’re ready to take home the gold. No one is getting in our way this year.”

A roar goes up at his words, and everyone crowds around him, shouting and shoving at each other, adrenaline kicking in. Sid grins widely, touching his necklace for luck before heading down the tunnel, where he can hear the den of the crowd cheering on the home team.

It’s a good game, fast and hard from the beginning. As the host team, Finland has a lot to prove, but Canada came with a grudge this year, bitter about the loss to Russia on home ice last year. Though Sid wasn’t there, he can still feel the pain of that defeat, the desire to erase the sour taste of silver. He doesn’t get as much ice time as some of the older guys, though he had expected as much, so he makes the most of every minute he has, setting up shots for his wingers and hustling back to play defense when the Finns get it over the blue line.

The shutout has everyone hyped, jumping around the locker room, slapping each other’s backs, and Sid basks in it, enjoys the boisterous cheers and the satisfaction of starting on the right foot. Getzlaf even pats him on the back.

“That was a good start, boys,” Durcoher begins once they’ve calmed down enough to hear him. “Things are still settling, and I might switch up some of the lines over the next few days, but that was the right way to get this tournament started, so good work from all of you.” There’re whoops and shouts, and he waits for everyone to fall silent. “We don’t have a game tomorrow, but we will have practice at nine thirty and then watch the Switzerland and Ukraine game at four. Curfew is eleven, so I better not catch you sneaking in after that, and if any of you show up to practice with a hangover tomorrow, you’ll all be bagskating. Is that clear?”

“Yes, sir,” they respond, disgruntled at the limits but unwilling to cross Durocher.

There’s talk of bars and clubs, places that somebody heard from somebody who was told by somebody that they were good, and Sid keeps his head down, lets the chatter wash over him and tries not to tense up when someone pats his shoulder.

_“Whoa,”_ Marc says, retracting his hand quickly. _“Sorry, Sid. I thought you heard me.”_

_“It’s fine. I was distracted. What’s up?”_

_“We are going to play some cards, maybe watch a movie in my room to celebrate the win. Do you want to join?”_

_“You’re not going out?”_

Max snorts as he sidles up next to them. _“No need. He already has a woman waiting for him at home, so no point hitting up the clubs.”_

Marc rolls his eyes and shoves Max away_. “You don’t just go to a club to pick-up, my friend. But I also do not want to go out with Getzlaf. He’s an asshole, especially to you.”_

_“Thanks, I will come. What is your room?”_

_“412, bring Seabrook. He needs to learn more French and get rid of that absolutely terrible accent he has. He is a shame to all of Canada.”_

_“I am only a little better.”_

_“You play in Rimouski,” _Marc says with a shrug_. “You’re practically one of us now, an honorary Quebecois.”_

The words warm him, pushing away the tension that had mounted as soon as Getzlaf started talking about plans for the night. He doesn’t much care about being a French Canadian, is perfectly fine with his status as an English speaker, but it’s so nice to feel like he has a place and friends on the team. He’s too used to being the odd-man out, the uppity kid who thinks he’s better than everyone else, so he’s often left behind. Jack had been his only real friend at Shattuck, and he is probably closest to Eric in Rimouski, though that’s mostly the result of living with the same billet family. It doesn’t really bother Sid. He gets along with his teammates on the ice; he doesn’t need to be their friends off it, and he would hold them back anyways with his young face and awkward mannerisms. It’s nice to be accepted by Marc though, to know that he has a group of friends that he can celebrate with after a good win.

Brent takes a seat beside him, toweling off his hair. “Marc invited us to come over for cards and a movie, said you need to work on your French because you’re an embarrassment to your country or something.”

Laughing, Brent shakes his head and balls his towel up to fling across the room at Marc, who lets out an indignant squawk. “Sounds good. I was gonna stay at the hotel anyways. Getzlaf may be dumb enough to go out tonight, but I worked too hard to get here, and I’m gonna follow coach’s rules so I can stay.”

Sid nods. “I hope they’re smart enough to take it easy tonight. I’m not about to bagskate a whole practice because they got shitfaced.”

Brent chuckles, and Sid makes his way to the showers, feeling infinitely more comfortable with his place on the team than he had the day before.

\----

“The Russians definitely want to win again,” Max says, when they’re all in Marc’s room, spread out across the beds, playing some weird game that Brent had chosen. “They have a strong team. Everyone knows Ovechkin and Malkin will go one and two in the draft.”

“Two talented players doesn’t make a team, though,” Brent argues, face twisted in concentration as he looks at his cards and decides what move to make. “I know they’re good. I’ve heard enough about Ovechkin’s slap shot to know that he’s someone to watch out for, but I just don’t think they have the same depth that they did last year. I think that they lost some good guys and are going to struggle to pull together a winning team.”

Nodding, Sid looks his cards over. “They tied with Slovakia 2-2 earlier, so I don’t think they’ve got quite the roster strength that they did last year.”

“You already know the score?” Marc asks, confusion furrowing his brows.

“I asked coach in the locker room earlier. They played at three, so I knew that the game had to already be over.” He lays down a card. “Besides the US, they’re probably our biggest competition, so it’s good to keep up with how they are playing in the tournament.”

“Fair enough,” Marc concedes. “How do you think they will play?”

“They’ll definitely make it to the quarterfinals and should move onto the semis, but they’d have to beat the US, and I’m just not sure they have the talent for that. The US put together a solid roster this year, and Ovechkin and Malkin are good, really good, but you can’t build a team around them, especially because they’re both younger guys, not even drafted yet. A team needs talent and experience to do well, and I’m not sure they have enough experience to get the job done.”

Everyone nods, murmuring agreement as Max makes his play, and Brent tells him he can’t put that card down because of such and such a rule. No one really understands how to play the game; Sid isn’t even sure if Brent fully remembers all of the rules, but it’s fun anyways, and when the clock shows 10:55, he almost resents the curfew.

“Do we want to shop tomorrow?” Marc asks, as everyone files out the door. “We will have time between practice and the Switzerland game.”

“Yeah, we’ll see if we can find all of those stores again. Pretty sure I was too exhausted to actually remember any of the places we wanted to go back to.”

“If we cannot find them again, we can find others.”

Sid’s not sure he can remember a single one of the storefronts that had interested them, but he doesn’t mind the prospect of wandering around Helsinki with these guys, taking in the sights and talking himself down from buying ten pounds of chocolate to take home. He does allow himself a small bar though and thoroughly enjoys the rich flavors of gingerbread and orange that make the chocolate a Christmas delicacy he can’t pass up, according to the sales attendant.

Marc gets his necklace for Véro and manages to convince them all to buy something similar for their moms and sisters, twinkling earrings or delicate charm bracelets, and Sid hopes Taylor will like her gift, will forgive him for being gone on Christmas a second year in a row. It’s so hard to apologize and beg her forgiveness when he knows he is going to miss Christmas next year, when he plays in the WJC again. Maybe the year after that, he can be with his family. He’ll have been drafted, will be playing in the NHL. He won’t have much of a break for Christmas, but his family could come visit him, wherever he ends up.

“Sid, hey Sid,” someone says, and Sid shakes himself, blinking rapidly to focus on whoever called his name and to get rid of the tears that had been pooling in his eyes at the thought of being away from his family for many years to come.

“Yeah?”

“You alright?” Brent asks, concern furrowing his brows. “We kind of lost you for a minute there.”

“I’m good, just got a bit distracted.”

Brent hums but relents, and Sid falls into step with him, deliberately avoiding the happy families that pass them by, headed towards the outdoor skating rink or one of the numerous cafes lining the streets.

Brent doesn’t bring it up again, until they’re getting ready for bed later that night, having spent the evening watching the new matrix movie in Marc’s room.

“You sure you’re okay, Sid?” he asks, concern tinging his tone.

“I’m good,” Sid replies evenly. “I think I’m still getting over the jetlag, and practice this morning was brutal.” It had been tough. Some of the guys had shown up a little worse for wear, clearly having stayed out late, and Durocher made good on his word to bag skate them.

“Fucking Getzlaf,” Brent mutters. “Dumb shit could barely walk this morning, let alone skate. I know that it was a good win, but we’ve still got a lot to go before we can really celebrate.”

“I think he learned his lesson.”

“Yeah, but seriously, Sid, you good? You totally spaced out on us earlier.”

“Just tired,” Sid reassures him, and that’s not a complete lie. He is still tired, can feel the six hours that separate Helsinki and Rimouski in his sour muscles, but he can feel the five hours between here and Cole Harbour even more, and it’s an ache that sits deep in his bones, weighing at him as he thinks of his family throwing out the last of the used wrapping paper and preparing for New Year’s Eve without him.

“Okay. If there’s anything else, if Getzlaf and his guys are bothering you or something, just tell me, alright?” He doesn’t make any threats, doesn’t tell Sid what he’ll do, but the set of his jaw and the fire in his eyes is enough to get the message across. Sid’s grateful Brent’s on his team because he wouldn’t want to stare down a defender with that look on his face.

“I will,” Sid promises. “Let’s get to sleep though. We’ve gotta beat Switzerland tomorrow.”

“Piece of cake,” Brent grins.

And it’s not a complete blowout, but they come away with a decisive 7-2 victory that has everyone making celebration plans.

“Settle down, settle down,” Durocher says afterwards, looking pleased. “That was a good game boys. You’re really clicking, and we’re seeing some great production. Now, I know that you all want to stay up late and celebrate the W, but we’ve got a game tomorrow, so there will be none of that.” A groan echoes throughout the room. “I don’t want to hear it. We will have no repeats of yesterday morning,” he says, eyes scanning the room to make contact with each player. “If we beat Ukraine, we’re guaranteed to move onto elimination play, so we need to get it done, alright?” They nod, some more begrudgingly than others. “Good, now the Czech Republic plays Finland at six thirty, and we play them in three days, so we’re going to go watch. Dinner is being brought in, so get showered and changed.”

There’s some grumbling and a few promises to go get trashed tomorrow night, but everyone listens, propelled through the showers by the thought of the food that awaits them.

\----

They beat Ukraine, a brutal 10-0 shutout that leaves a bitter taste in the back of Sid’s mouth when he sees the crushed faces of his opponents. They haven’t managed a single goal in the tournament, constantly routed by better teams, and Sid would regret handing them their asses for a third time, but they’ve punched their ticket to the next round, and when they beat the Czech Republic two days later, they secure a spot in the semifinals and a couple days off.

Durocher extends curfew that night, giving them permission to celebrate the win and the New Year, though he looks like he knows he’ll regret it when they all stumble into practice the next morning. Almost everyone takes advantage of the leniency; even Brent decides to abandon their nightly card games to go out and with Marc using the computer in the lobby to IM with Véro and wish her a Happy New Year, Sid heads to bed early.

He’s just about to drift off when he hears the lock click open and laughter floods into the room. There’s stumbling and the sound of a very feminine giggle, and Sid shoots up in bed, scrambling to his feet to see Brent and a leggy blonde pressed against the bathroom door.

“Fuck,” Brent swears when he catches sight of Sid. “Sid, I thought you would still be in Flower’s room. Sorry.”

“It’s fine,” Sid replies and makes a snap decision. Grabbing a couple of his sticks and a role of tape, he makes for the door. “I needed to work on my tape job anyways. I’ll just, uh, go.”

“You sure?” He’s asking, but Sid can see that he wants him to go.

“Yeah, absolutely. I’ve been switching between a couple all week, and I need to figure out which is best before elimination starts.”

“Okay,” Brent answers, relief in his eyes.

“I’ll see you later,” Sid tells him and bolts out the door, clutching his sticks close as he heads down the hall, trying to find a good spot to hang out. The lobby is out of the question; he’d get too many weird looks, swinging his sticks around, testing out the different tape jobs.

There’s a small room at the end of the hall, just the ice maker and vending machine inside, and though it’s smaller than he’d like, it’ll have to do for the next hour or so.


	3. Chapter 3

It’s late when they reach Helsinki, and for a moment, Zhenya is confused by all the people milling about the well-lit streets, stepping into stores and stopping for treats at the open cafes. He knew the city would have more of a nightlife than Hämeelinna, but that doesn’t explain the enormous crowds out strolling so late. He checks his watch, certain that it has to be nearing eleven, if not later, and he catches sight of the date. December 31st. New Year’s Eve.

In the stress of the tournament, he had completely forgotten the approach of the New Year. It wasn’t like he would be celebrating with his family as he had every other year before this. They would exchange gifts once he was back home in Magnitogorsk, surrounded by familiar faces and a language he understood. He knows they have the day off tomorrow; everyone does, though Zhenya is certain coach will have them practicing and preparing for their game against Finland in two days.

His heart aches for a moment at the thought of his mama and papa, hosting a New Year’s Eve party at the home Zhenya had bought them shortly after joining the Superleague. It hurts to think that he will not be eating his mother’s cooking or lighting up sparklers at midnight. He knows he should be over this, has been on traveling teams for so long that it shouldn’t feel strange to miss holidays and birthdays, but he can’t help it. He watches all of the families pass by in the streets, fingers intertwined and arms around each other, and he feels a lump rise in his throat.

He has always been an emotional guy. Each time he cries, mama wraps him up in a tight hug and tells him not to be embarrassed by the tears because they are a sign of his big heart, and he cries into her shoulder, bent comically to fit in her arms. He misses her fiercely and wishes she was there to run gentle fingers through his hair, softly murmuring to him that everything would be okay, that she still loves him even when he is far away.

A rustling comes from his left, and he brusquely wipes at his eyes, before turning to see Sasha emerging from sleep.

“Are we there yet?” His voice is muddled, and Zhenya can barely make out the words.

“Yes, it’s slow going right now though. Too many people out for the parties.”

“Parties?” Sasha repeats, suddenly looking more alert.

Zhenya can’t help but snort at his reaction. “Not for you,” he reminds him. “But yes, parties. It’s New Year’s Eve.”

“New Year’s Eve?” Sasha shoots up in his seat, wide awake. “I completely forgot.” He peeks around Zhenya to see the bright lights and passerbys bundled up to stave off the bitter cold of winter.

Zhenya regards him in bemusement. “It’s not like we can do anything to celebrate. Coach would have our heads if we tried to sneak out or tried to sneak anything or anyone in.”

Sasha dismisses his words with the flippant wave of a hand. “Yes, I know. I don’t really feel like celebrating anyways,” and Zhenya knows he is still smarting from the loss, can see it in the tightness around his eyes and the hunch of his shoulders. “But that means tomorrow is New Year’s, and I have no gift for you! What kind of a friend am I, if I can’t give you a proper gift on our first New Year’s together.”

Zhenya isn’t sure if Sasha is genuine or joking, and he doesn’t want to ruin strange peace they have come to by telling Sasha this is most likely the only New Year’s they will ever spend together, unless they end up on the same team (highly unlikely) or play for the national team again next year (equally unlikely, as they should both be on NHL teams come next New Year’s).

“It’s okay. It’s not like I have anything to give you either.”

“We need to fix this, Zhenya. We can’t be true friends if we don’t do this.”

The more Sasha speaks the more Zhenya is convinced he is messing with him. True friends. Who talks like that? Alexander Mikhailovich does apparently, and this is the most energetic Zhenya has seen him since the final buzzer echoed through the rink in Hämeenlinna, signaling the end of the game and their defeat at the hands of the Americans.

“Okay. Then tomorrow, after practice, we will go find gifts at one of the local shops close to the hotel.”

“It’s a holiday. Nothing will be open.”

“Then we’ll wait until the second to get gifts.”

Sasha pauses, clearly weighing this option to determine its acceptability. Finally, he nods, once. “Good idea. I will find you the best gift Helsinki has to offer.”

Zhenya laughs. “Not if I get you the best gift first.”

“Never,” Sasha scoffs. “I am the best gift giver. No one gives better gifts than me.”

They banter back and forth, each claiming superiority, until the bus rolls up outside the hotel. Most of the boys are still asleep, and coach tells them to stay on the bus, as a manager runs in to grab the room keys.

As far as Zhenya knows, roommate pairs will stay the same, and he doesn’t find the thought as distasteful as he would have just a week ago. Funny how quickly you get used to someone when you spend every day with them: eating, sleeping, playing, winning, losing. He supposes there are worse people to be stuck rooming with than Sasha.

When the manager returns, they stumble out of the bus to collect their bags and room keys, some only awake enough to step forward when their name is read, before heading through the sliding glass doors of the hotel.

Zhenya takes the key when the manager calls his name because Sasha’s former excitement has faded, and his eyes are drooping so much Zhenya is impressed he can even see where he is walking. Neither seems to care about showering, even though they only had time for a rough scrub before leaving the arena, but as Zhenya sets his bag on the floor, he can feel a twinge in his ribs that will most likely be a nasty bruise in the morning.

It came after a hit midway through the third period. They were sloppy from anger and frustration, flinging themselves around the ice in the hopes that something would connect and stop the Americans from barreling their way to a sweep. He had gone to collect a puck that had been slung around the boards and seen an approaching defenseman on his left. Desperate to get the puck to an open Sasha, he had spun and flicked it away, leaving himself vulnerable to a check that should have led to an ejection or at least a five-minute major. He’d been crushed between his opponent and the boards, catching a sharp elbow in the ribs just below his pads.

He pulls his shirt up and gently prods at the tender flesh. There is only a faint shadow that he knows will take several hours to fully develop into a nasty bruise. He thinks about dropping into bed and worrying about it in the morning; the siren call of sleep, which Sasha has already given into if his soft snores are any indication, is tempting enough.

But he knows it will hurt worse and take longer to heal if he doesn’t get ice on it now to stop some of the swelling. With one last glance at his bed, he grabs the ice bucket off the small desk and exits the room, making sure to shut the door quietly so as not to disturb Sasha.

He tiptoes down the hallway, praying that coach has already gone to bed and isn’t about to pounce on Zhenya and chastise him for his late night wandering. The ice machine is tucked into a small room at the end of the hallway, easily overlooked if you’re not used to seeking it out. Zhenya unfortunately has enough experience hunting them down in foreign hotels that he has little trouble finding it.

As he approaches, he can hear the hum of the machine and a soft, sporadic hissing he can’t make sense of. When he reaches the open doorway, he is brought up short at the sight of a young man passing what looks like a ball of crumpled paper back and forth across the tiled floor with a hockey stick. He is wearing a white and red tracksuit that Zhenya could mistake as Russian if not for the bold CANADA that stretches over his shoulders. His outfit is completed with a pair of sandals so worn they are held together with duct tape.

Zhenya is frozen stiff, feet stuck to the ground and eyes caught on the man before him. He doesn’t often look at teammates; he knows how stupid and dangerous that is, especially in Russia, but he can’t help himself. He’ll blame it on exhaustion in the morning.

His eyes trace over the man’s body, taking in the hair that curls at the nape of his neck and the strong legs that bend automatically, as if he is used to keeping a low center of gravity. Which is necessary in skating, and skating is probably something this man does every day because he is more than likely a member of the Canadian national team. There is no other explanation, and Zhenya is standing here, arms limp at his side, watching this guy like some creep, as he handles a ball of paper across the floor. He feels ridiculous, but he can’t seem to move.

The man swipes the ball forward, then tries some fancy between-the-legs maneuver that he doesn’t quite pull off, and the wadded up paper comes skidding towards Zhenya before being stopped by his stupid, unmoving feet. The man turns and startles at Zhenya’s presence, eyes widening further as he takes in the obviously Russian attire Zhenya has on.

“Oh.” It’s almost an exhale, so soft Zhenya barely registers it, and he feels his mouth go dry.

They stare at each other for a beat then another, and a flush begins to creep up the other man’s (boy’s? Now that Zhenya can see his face, he looks incredibly young.) neck and into his cheeks. Zhenya is absurdly charmed.

“Sorry,” he finally stammers, and the man (boy?) startles again. Zhenya clears his throat, but it feels so dry that probably does little good. “Sorry,” he repeats and stoops down to grab the paper ball. He holds it out to the boy who pauses a half-second longer than Zhenya likes before extending his hand to accept it.

“Thanks.” He doesn’t move, but he doesn’t say anything more either.

Zhenya still needs to get some ice for his ribs, but he doesn’t want to seem impolite, and he also doesn’t want to watch this boy walk away. This is a bad idea, he thinks, before opening his mouth. “You Canada?” he asks, gesturing to the maple leaf stitched over the boy’s heart.

“Uh, yes. Yes, I’m Canadian.” His voice is softer than Zhenya expects, shy almost. “And you’re Russian, right?” He too points to Zhenya’s jacket, where the double-headed eagle sits.

Zhenya nods, mesmerized by the way he talks, his mouth rounding out the vowels until they are more pronounced than Zhenya has ever heard them in English classes. “You name?” The words spill out before he can stop them, and he knows he has misspoken as soon as the boy’s face scrunches up in confusion. He would be embarrassed, but he is too distracted by the cute wrinkle of his nose.

“My name?”

Zhenya nods.

“Sidney,” he says. “Uh, Sidney Crosby.”

He recognizes the name, has heard it even in Russia, and he knows the boy knows that because he looks down as he says it, averts his gaze to avoid seeing Zhenya’s reaction.

“Good hockey,” he responds, and the boy’s head snaps up, cheeks a fiery red once more. His eyes locks on Zhenya’s, and if Zhenya wasn’t completely frozen before, he is now. Sidney’s eyes are fierce, intense, and Zhenya feels like he has been put under a microscope for examination. It’s a little overwhelming.

A beat passes, then two, and Zhenya watches as Sidney gazes flicks across his face, searching for something, and Zhenya wonders if this is what he’s like on the ice: sharp, focused, driven. It would explain why he’s so good.

“Thanks,” Sidney says, once he has finished scrutinizing him. “What’s your name?”

“Евге́ний Влади́мирович,” he pauses, “Ма́лкин.” It is habit to answer with his name and patronymic, but he knows that means nothing to a foreigner. If Sidney has ever seen his name written anywhere, it would be in the English style, probably on a roster or a scout report. “Евге́ний Ма́лкин,” he corrects.

Sidney’s face scrunches up again, and Zhenya can see his mouth silently moving, repeating Zhenya’s name to himself.

“Evgeni Malkin,” Zhenya says, much slower than before.

“Evgeni Malkin,” Sidney parrots, tongue tripping over the Russian letters, and Zhenya is absolutely smitten.

“Yes, little, uh, bad but,” he holds up his hand, thumb and pointer finger nearly touching. He can’t remember the word. It’s been so long since he seriously studied English.

Sidney laughs, a quick gust of air that is more movement than noise. “Close? Probably not. My French is awful, and I’m actually trying to learn that. My Russian is ten times worse.” Sidney pauses, rolling his lower lip between his teeth. “Though I can’t really say my Russian is bad because I don’t actually know any, so…” he trails off, realizing Zhenya lost the thread of conversation two words in.

They stand facing one another, having most likely exhausted the extent of their communication abilities. Zhenya glances over to the ice machine, the reason he had ventured here in the first place, and sees a second stick leaning against it.

He points towards it. “Two?”

“Two what?” Sidney asks, head swiveling to follow the direction of Zhenya’s finger. “Two sticks?” He holds up the one in his hand as he says it, and Zhenya nods, relieved he understood him. “I’m trying out different tape jobs,” he answers with a shrug.

The blank look on Zhenya’s face must let him know his words were not understood, so he grabs the second stick and holds it beside the other. “Tape job,” he repeats, index fingers gesturing at the spirals of tape at the top of his sticks.

Zhenya looks at the tops of the sticks, unsure what Sidney is trying to communicate. It takes him carefully looking each stick over before noticing the slight difference in knob size and angle of descending tape.

He lifts a finger to graze it over the knob. “Different.” It’s not a question, and Sidney’s eyes light up.

“Yeah! Yeah, they’re different. I’m not sure which I like better, so I’m testing them both out to help me decide.”

Once more, Zhenya struggles to understand the rapid fire English pouring from Sidney’s mouth. He can recognize the excitement Sidney has about whatever he is doing, the importance of the task conveyed through his bright eyes and fidgety hands that thrum with energy. He smiles because he doesn’t know what else to do. He shouldn’t be doing anything, but he’ll blame the exhaustion for this, too.

Apparently, Sidney wants to be understood, enough that he is willing to act his words out. He sets one of the sticks aside and grasps the other with both hands. He collects the paper ball that had been abandoned in favor of his second stick and guides it across the floor. He then stops, looks at the stick with concern, sets it aside, and grabs the other one. He repeats the actions with the second stick before picking both up and shrugging at Zhenya.

It is adorable, and Zhenya has no idea why Sidney Crosby has decided to talk with him—talk is a relative word here—but he isn’t going to question it too much. He sets aside the ice bucket and extends a hand. Just before he touches the stick in Sidney’s left hand, he hesitates, locking eyes with him and silently asking. Sidney nods and pushes the stick into his hand.

He takes a couple steps back, until he is almost against the opposite wall and lowers the stick, hands falling into position with ease. He taps the ground once, twice, and Sidney beams at him in response. It lights up his whole face and sends warmth pooling in Zhenya’s stomach. He pulls the paper ball close, sliding it around his feet before chipping it over to Zhenya.

Delighted, Zhenya sends a smile back at him before following it up with the ball. They pass for several minutes, growing more creative in angles and heights as they get comfortable with one another’s style. Then Sidney steps forward, holds out his stick to Zhenya, and they switch.

They continue to dish it back and forth, and Zhenya feels himself relax into the familiar, repetitive motions. Even though they’re standing in a hotel hallway, passing a crumpled ball of paper back and forth, Zhenya recognizes Sidney’s skill; it is evident in his posture, steady and sure, and in his undeniable competence in guiding the ball to the exact spot he wants it.

After a few more passes, Sidney chips the ball up and manages to get it into the trash can with a quick swipe of his stick. Zhenya might be a little bit in love.

He steps back into the small room and holds the stick out to Sidney. “One or two?” he asks.

Sidney brow furrows.

“One,” Zhenya says, holding up the stick in his hand, “or two?” he finishes with a wave at the stick Sidney is holding.

“Oh.” He takes Zhenya’s question very seriously, humming softly to himself as he weighs the two options, and with his free hand, he reaches out to gently take the stick back from Zhenya. He holds both up, rotating them this way and that, tilting his head to look at the tape from every angle. Zhenya likes how focused he is, eyes intent as they catalog the differences between the two sticks, obviously debating the pros and cons of each internally. Zhenya has never thought too much about his tape job, has had the same one for years now, but this is clearly important to Sidney, so he stands and waits, watching as Sidney comes to a decision. “One,” he says and sets the other aside to drop back into a ready stance. He moves it from side to side, pulling it close and pushing it back out, his fluid movements reminding Zhenya of a dancer. “Yeah, one.”

Zhenya smiles when Sidney catches his eye. “Good.”

He returns the smile, and Zhenya swears he can feel his heartbeat stutter in his chest, tripping over itself for a moment before settling into a slightly faster rhythm. “Thank you.”

“Da,” Zhenya responds, too distracted by the warmth in Sidney’s eyes and the thought that he put it there to pay attention to the language he is speaking. They probably look strange, standing a few feet apart, Sidney loosely holding a stick as they grin at each other. “Why—” he cuts himself off, unsure how to ask his question. He has never regretted his mediocre efforts in English class so much. “Why here?” he finally settles on, though Sidney doesn’t seem to understand, if his politely blank face is any indication.

Zhenya scowls in frustration and wracks his brain for any English word. His already meager vocabulary seems to have deserted him though, and he is left speechless, mouth opening intermittently to shape itself around words he no longer remembers.

Sidney is apparently just as eager to talk though, or he feels bad for Zhenya and his sad English, because he starts talking. “Why am I here? Uh, same reason you are I guess, World Juniors.” He awkwardly plucks at his jacket, fingers pinching at the fabric above the white maple leaf.

Zhenya huffs out a laugh and flaps a hand through the air. “No, no.” He knows why Sidney is here, knew it the moment he set eyes on him. Even without the tracksuit and stick he could have guessed Sidney was one of the players. He looks young and foreign, sticking out even before he opens his mouth. “Why here?” Zhenya asks again, pointing rather forcefully at the ground. “No…” he fumbles for the right word. “No…bed?”

Realization dawns on Sidney’s face, and a blush quickly follows. “No, I have a bed,” he stammers, and Zhenya doesn’t understand why his question elicited such a flustered reaction. “I was kicked out though, by my roommate.”

“Roommate?” Zhenya fumbles, the r catching in the back of his throat. He never did get the hang of English pronunciation.

“Roommate, the guy I’m bunking with.” Sidney must realize Zhenya can’t understand because he continues, “My teammate,” he says and gestures at his jacket, even does a quick turn to point at the CANADA written across his back.

Zhenya repeats the words silently to himself, pausing to parse the meaning of Sidney’s statement coupled with his miming. He feels like a small child just learning to speak, lips and tongue awkward around each sound. “Teammate,” he repeats.

“Yeah, like Datsyuk and Zetterberg or, uh, Kharlamov with Petrov and Mikhailov.” Sidney’s pronunciation might be worse in Russian than Zhenya’s is in English. Despite the butchered consonants and overemphasized vowels, Zhenya thinks he understands and appreciates that Sidney chose names he would be familiar with.

Zhenya nods enthusiastically. “Teammate,” he says, gesturing at his own Russian gear to show Sidney he has understood.

“Yeah, my teammate, the one I share a room with. He kicked me out.”

The sense of pride and accomplishment at his comprehension fades as Sidney continues talking, and he hates it, wishes he could just understand and be understood. But when he was still taking English classes back at school, he had wasted his time doodling hockey plays into the margins of his paper, not thinking that someday he would meet a beautiful Canadian boy who actually wanted to talk to him but couldn’t because Zhenya hadn’t paid enough attention in class. He wishes he could go back and shake some sense into his twelve-year-old self.

Sidney is not to be discouraged though, a trait Zhenya is realizing might be a theme in his life. He strides past Zhenya into the hallway and points at one of the doors. “Room,” he says, slowly and clearly. He points towards another. “Room,” he says again.

“Room,” Zhenya says, pointing to another door. He feels like a parrot, repeating whatever Sidney says, but even if this is the extent of their communication abilities, at least they are communicating.

“Yeah, room. My teammate,” Sidney plucks at the maple leaf again, “said to leave,” he makes a shooing motion with his hand, “the room,” a finger points to the door, “because he had a girl.” Here Sidney pauses before lifting both arms up and wiggling them through the air. His cheeks are red again, and Zhenya struggles to focus on what he is saying because of it. Sidney repeats the motion, hands slowly curving in, flaring out, and then returning in. “Girl. He has a girl.” Sidney hesitates, and Zhenya worries that he will give up trying to explain. After a moment though, Sidney lifts his hands, cheeks flaming but eyes determined, and makes a frankly obscene gesture that Zhenya would have to be blind not to understand. “My teammate has a girl in the room.” He hooks his thumb over his shoulder to gesture at a door again before dropping it.

“Yes, yes!” Zhenya nearly shouts, eager to assuage Sidney’s embarrassment and show he has understood. “Teammate, girl, room. Yes.” He mimics Sidney’s earlier hand motions to demonstrate he has understood and grins. “You here, teammate room,” and damn if he isn’t proud of himself for stringing together that many words.

Sidney laughs, a loud boisterous sound that shocks Zhenya until he realizes what is happening and joins in. He is endeared by Sidney, watching him clap a hand over his mouth to stifle the sound and shaking with it. It’s half loud honking and half breathless gasps, and Zhenya loves it, can’t help but laugh himself sick hearing it. They stand there for God only knows how long, shoulders quaking and knees bent as they try to catch their breaths, knowing this hallway is full of players who are probably trying to get some good sleep before the rest of the tournament—though apparently Sidney’s roommate isn’t one of them.

When they have finally regained control of themselves and Zhenya can see past the tears gathering in his eyes, he looks at Sidney and feels like he just took a hard check from behind. Though he is no longer laughing, a giggle or two still escapes, and a wide, unguarded grin stretches across his face, showing off his gleaming teeth. He looks even younger like this, and Zhenya takes a moment to wonder how good he has to be, if he was chosen to play for the national team.

Sidney’s gaze flicks over Zhenya’s shoulder and catches on something, before he sighs. “I should get back there. He should be done by now.” Zhenya’s confusion must be evident because Sidney jerks his chin at something behind him, and Zhenya turns to see a clock. It’s past midnight, and he’s shocked. They’ve been here longer than he thought, and he needs to get back to his room for some much-needed sleep, but he doesn’t want to leave Sidney and this seemingly delicate moment they’ve shared. He worries that he’ll wake up in the morning, and this will all have been a dream.

“Oh,” Zhenya says, nodding in agreement, though he could not understand Sidney’s exact words. “Nice to meet, Sidney.”

“Sid,” he responds, almost automatic, and Zhenya doesn’t know what he means. “My friends, my team, call me Sid. It’s a nickname. Sid is short for Sidney.” As he says it, he holds his hands up, close together, before pulling them apart. He repeats the motion, “Sid,” hands close, “is short for Sidney,” and his hands pull apart.

Zhenya is a bit overwhelmed with how patient Sidney—Sid—is about this, doing whatever he can to help him understand. “Sid, little Sidney,” he says for clarification.

“Yeah, you,” he says, pointing at Zhenya’s chest, “can call me Sid.”

Zhenya grins, delighted. “You Sid. I Женя.” Sid mouths the word, clearly trying and failing to replicate the sounds. “Евге́ний,” he says, hands out wide like Sid had done, “Женя,” and he pulls them close.

“Evgeni,” Sid repeats, slow and careful, “Zhen-ya.”

“Yes!” Zhenya exclaims. “Евге́ний, Женя.”

“Zhenya,” Sid says with a bit more confidence, and Zhenya nods enthusiastically. “You call me Sid, and I call you Zhenya.”

“Yes, we friends,” Zhenya declares, uncaring that they met less than an hour ago and will only be here for another week before returning to countries thousands of kilometers apart.

“Friends,” Sid confirms, and the smile that steals its way over his mouth is shy but content,. Zhenya feels his heart squeeze in his chest.

“Good,” he says and knows he has a dopey smile stretching across his own face.

They stand grinning at each other before Sid speaks again. “Well, good night.”

He begins to gather his sticks, and Zhenya watches him, knowing they both need sleep but scared he will never see or talk to Sid again, beyond the ice. Making a snap decision, he flings his arms around him—mama always said he loved too easily—and envelops him in a crushing hug. It’s a bit awkward with the sticks caught between them, and Sid lets out a startled gasp before tentatively returning the hug, one-armed.

“Спокойной ночи,” Zhenya mutters into Sid’s curls, so grateful that Sid didn’t push him away.

“Spakoee nochi,” Sid responds, and Zhenya wants to laugh at the pronunciation but also cry at Sid’s sincerity. He has never felt so much at once and doesn’t know what to do with all the emotions tearing through him. He tightens his arms briefly, then pulls away to grab the long-abandoned ice bucket.

“See you in the morning?” Sid says, and it comes out more as a question.

“Mowrneng?”

Sid giggles again, and Zhenya doesn’t even care that it’s because of his bad English because he already loves Sid’s laugh more than he should. “Morning,” Sid corrects. He then raises his arm, lays his head on it, and closes his eyes. He lets out a loud snore, and Zhenya laughs. Slowly, he lifts his head and stretches with a huge yawn that Zhenya is sure he isn’t faking. “Morning,” Sid repeats, and Zhenya is so pathetically charmed by him.

“Morneng, yes. You, me, morneng.” He still doesn’t have the pronunciation down if Sid’s grin is anything to go by, but he doesn’t care. Sid wants to see him tomorrow!

With a final nod and a quiet good night, Sid walks out of the room and down the hall, Zhenya’s eyes following him until he slips into a room about halfway down the hall.

Sighing, Zhenya trudges over to the ice machine and tries not to get too excited about the prospect of seeing Sid in the morning. Tonight, they were alone, caught in a private moment they could share between them, but tomorrow will be different. Zhenya will surely have Sasha glued to his side, chattering on about the joys of being in Helsinki where he can finally go on the hunt again. Those were the exact words he used, Zhenya is embarrassed to admit.

He fills the bucket and makes his way back to his room in a trance. The exhaustion that has been hounding him since the final period ended sets in hard, as he slides his key card into the lock, waiting for it to flash green. Blearily, he stumbles through the room, free hand waving wildly and bumping into things as he tries to find the desk. He remembers there was a trashcan beside it and knows the housekeeping staff usually keep extra bags stocked in the bottom.

He fumbles with the bucket and bag, nearly dumping the ice out once or twice, before finally managing the exchange. He ties it off and collapses into bed, grimacing as the cold ice hits his bruised ribs. Sleep pulls at him, dragging him down, and he surrenders to the feeling.

\----

Morning comes too quickly, their alarm shattering Zhenya’s exhausted slumber, and he rolls over to flail at the night stand. He can hear Sasha cursing from the other bed, promising death if the sound doesn’t stop immediately. In the ensuing quiet, Zhenya flops back onto his pillows and is shocked when his hip meets a cool, smooth material instead of the soft sheets. Dragging back the covers, he sees the tied-off trash bag filled with water that had been ice last night.

At that thought, Zhenya shoots up in bed. Sid. He had met Sid last night when he had gone to get the ice and had ended up passing a crumpled paper ball with him. Sid who had a ridiculous laugh and a beautiful smile and probably played better hockey than Zhenya. Sid who had said he would see Zhenya in the morning.

Suddenly awake, Zhenya flings himself out of bed and only barely avoids tripping over Sasha’s discarded sandal. He tugs at the zipper of his bag, in a hurry because he doesn’t know when Sid has practice and wants to make sure he catches him at breakfast, even if they can only nod at each other because their teammates would think it’s weird if they greeted each other as friends.

“Zhenya, you’re so loud,” Sasha complains, still buried under the blankets and not looking like he plans to get up any time soon. “Like a baby elephant learning to walk.”

It’s a strange image, but Zhenya has learned that most things about Sasha are strange, and it’s better to not question it. “We need to go to breakfast, Sasha.”

“Five more minutes,” Sasha grumps.

Five more minutes could mean missing Sid, if he hasn’t already. “No, coach is already mad after the game yesterday. There’s no reason to give him another excuse to skate us into the ground.”

Sasha huffs, but the mention of their loss is enough to have him sliding out of bed, feet pushing across the floor, as he seeks out his shoes without opening his eyes. “Fine, you’re right. Let’s go.”

“I have to change,” Zhenya answers, a clean shirt and sweatpants in hand.

Sasha stares at him. “Why? What you’re wearing is fine. It’s just breakfast. We can come up to change before practice.”

“No,” and it’s firmer than Zhenya intends, eliciting a raised eyebrow from Sasha. “I need one minute.” Ignoring Sasha’s protest, he strides over the bathroom and hauls his shirt over his head, shucking his dirty sweatpants off right after. He doesn’t want to show up to breakfast in the same thing Sid saw him in last night.

When he exits the bathroom, Sasha jokes, “Would you like to fix your hair, as well? There’s some sticking up in the back.”

Zhenya knows he shouldn’t rise to the bait, knows a reaction will only encourage Sasha’s teasing, but he can’t help it. He slaps a hand to the back of his head and rakes his fingers through the hair there, forcing it to sit flat. Sasha guffaws.

“Who are you trying to impress, Zhenya? This is a hotel full of hockey players; no one will care.”

Zhenya keeps his mouth shut, though he hopes there is one hockey player who will care how he looks. “Whatever,” he mutters and makes his way out the door, Sasha trailing behind, chirping him for his looks.

“Maybe you should have brushed your teeth, Zhenya; you wouldn’t want the Finns to think you have bad breath,” and it’s another joke, but Zhenya feels foolish for not brushing his teeth or swishing around some mouth wash at the very least. It’s too late now, though. Sasha would never leave him alone if he tried to go back.

When they enter the breakfast area, Sasha is still talking, running his mouth about how Zhenya has finally decided to care about his looks even though it’s a lost cause because he can’t change his face like he can his shirt. Zhenya ignores him, a skill he is rapidly developing, and scans the room. He can see a few guys from Slovakia making their way through the breakfast buffet and averts his eyes as soon as he sees the red, white, and blue of the Americans. He still can’t believe they lost to them.

Finally, he spots a head of curly hair he can’t help but recognize. Sid is sitting at a table with a couple of other guys in the Canadian red and white, who are talking loudly. Zhenya is no linguist, but it doesn’t sound like English. French Canadians then. Though it is clearly not his native language, he thinks Sid mentioned something about French, but he can’t be sure. He struggles to understand elementary English on a good day, and last night, he had been exhausted, coming off a tough loss with a bruised rib, so he can’t be certain he heard right.

One of the guys says something that makes Sid laugh, and Zhenya stares. It’s the same way Sid laughed last night, loud and unashamed, and Zhenya can’t help feeling jealous that Sid’s teammates get to make him laugh like that. Sure, Zhenya did last night, but in the light of day, surrounded by their teammates and opponents, Zhenya can only watch.

By pleasant happenstance, Sid turns his head to the side, fist clenched in front of his mouth, and catches Zhenya’s eye. His laughter dies out quickly, but a smile remains and seems to grow as he takes Zhenya in. He nods, and Zhenya can see him lift his hand to wave before aborting the movement to run his fingers through his unruly curls. Zhenya nods back, hands firmly tucked into his pockets. He knows no one would make much of him nodding at another player; guys do it all the time. But waving would catch attention and lead to questions from both of their teammates about why they are on friendly enough terms to greet each other. Zhenya doesn’t want to answer those questions, feels like he would be giving up a precious secret if he told anyone about meeting Sid.

Grabbing a plate from the precarious stack, Zhenya eyes the different breakfast options, stomach growling when he sees the pastries. One or two won’t hurt him; it is New Year’s after all. He snags one and proceeds to bury it under a mountain of eggs and fruit, hoping to hide it until he can eat it.

He’s looking over the selection of yogurts when he feels someone sidle up beside him. He starts to excuse himself and move, but then he sees a familiar pair of hazel eyes.

“Sid,” he says, voice gruff from the early hour and surprise.

“Zhenya, hi,” and Zhenya has never loved the sound of his own name more. He likes the way Sid’s mouth opens around it, dragging out the zh- before loosening for the -a.

“Hi,” Zhenya answers and can’t help the soppy look he directs at Sid.

“Did you sleep okay?” Sid asks. He catches himself, remembering the language barrier that separates them. “Did you sleep,” he lays his head against his hand and lets out a soft snore, “good?” and he gives a thumbs up.

“Yes, you?”

“Yeah.”

It’s quiet for a moment. There isn’t much they can say or ask without drawing attention as they try to act it out.

“When hockey?” Zhenya asks.

Sid’s brow furrows. “When hockey?” he repeats. “Oh, practice is at nine.” He holds up nine fingers. “What about you?”

“Девять три́дцать,” Zhenya answers and holds up nine fingers, too. Then he holds up an index finger and crooks it down at the first knuckle.

With a grin, Sid says, “Nine thirty, cool.” He then glances away. “What, uh, what are you doing after?”

“After?”

“Yeah, in the afternoon.”

“Team,” he answers with a shrug. There are a couple of sites he wants to see, if he can, and chances are high that Sasha and some of the other guys will tag along.

It must not be what Sid wants to hear because his face falls for a moment, and Zhenya feels out of his depth. Was that the wrong thing to say? Could Sid have wanted Zhenya to say he had no plans? “Yeah, of course, obviously,” and Sid is tripping over his words he’s speaking so quickly. “You’re going to be with you team. Duh, I knew that. Me, too, probably. Yeah.”

And Zhenya can see him take a half-step back and panics. If Sid leaves now, he may never speak to Zhenya again because Zhenya was too dumb to realize what Sid was asking. “No, no,” he starts, reaching out to grab Sid’s arm, who freezes. “Yes, team after, but, uh, you, me, after team?” And God, that made no sense, Zhenya is certain.

“After team?” Sid repeats, and Zhenya must have said something right because he no longer looks like he’s about to bolt for his table.

“Yes, after team,” and Zhenya feels so much more confident now. Clearly, Sid wants to see him later; that much is obvious. “Uh, во́семь часо́в,” he offers, holding up eight fingers.

“At eight? Yeah, that’s, yeah.” Sid smiles, and it’s the soft, shy one that melts Zhenya’s heart. “In the room from last night?”

Zhenya understands the time confirmation but has no idea what Sid says after that. “What?”

“Eight,” Sid says, holding up his fingers, “in the room from last night, where we played hockey,” and he mimes holding a stick.

“Room, hockey.” Zhenya repeats the only words he was able to pick out and tries to figure out what Sid is saying. “Room, hockey,” he says again. “Oh! Kомната, где мы играли в хоккей, да. ” Sid’s eyebrows are raised, and Zhenya shrugs sheepishly. “Room, hockey, da. Eight?”

Sid grins. “Eight. See you then.”

“See you,” Zhenya answers with a grin and watches Sid weave his way back through the tables. Snagging a random yogurt, he turns to look for Sasha, finding him tucked in the far corner, drooping over his breakfast.

He drops his tray in a loud clatter and snorts when Sasha jumps. “There’s no time to take a shower if you fall asleep in your breakfast.”

“Not falling asleep,” Sasha retorts, scooping a forkful of eggs. “Just thinking about how I’m going to kick your butt in practice today.”

“Of course, Sasha. But how are you going to beat me if you can’t even stay upright on your skates, hmm?”

Sasha scoffs. “I could be frozen to the ice and still beat you, old man.”

“You’re older than me,” Zhenya points out.

“Yes, but I’m in good shape for my advanced age, but you,” he gestures at Zhenya with his egg-loaded fork, “are not.”

“I’m in much better shape than you! I beat you every time we have to do sprints.”

“It’s only because I let you. I don’t want you to feel too bad.”

Before Zhenya can respond, Gimayev slips into the chair beside him, plate stuffed with more food than anyone could eat, even a hockey-playing teenage boy. “I feel like death,” he says, and he looks it, deep-purple bags under his eyes and hair a riot. “The heater in my room is broken, and I was up half the night trying not to freeze to death.”

“Bad luck, man,” Sasha says. “Still, you look better than Zhenya does, even after he gets a full night of beauty sleep.”

Zhenya cries out in protest, and several of their teammates join them, plates so full Zhenya is sure they have cleared out the breakfast bar. Oh well, the hotel should know young, growing hockey players eat each meal like it’s their last.

During practice later that morning, Zhenya wonders if maybe breakfast was his last meal because Ishmatov may actually kill them all with the way he is drilling them. Before practice, he had given a small speech, telling them to put yesterday’s loss behind them because they now had just as much chance as anyone of winning the whole tournament. But none of them will see another game if coach keeps this up.

“Is it murder if we die because he is working us too hard?” Sasha huffs, breathless and red-faced.

Not willing to waste any of his precious oxygen on Sasha’s question, Zhenya shrugs and skates back into line, ready for his turn in the shooting drill coach has them running. He thinks even if someone did die during practice, coach has the connections necessary to make it look like an accident. It’s not a very reassuring thought, so Zhenya shakes his head and turns his thoughts back to practice.

No one has much to say in the locker room afterwards, though that might be because no one can say anything at all. Zhenya thinks he may have developed asthma in the last two hours, and looking at Sasha’ s heaving back, he isn’t the only one.

“Good practice,” Ishmatov says because he wasn’t just skating his ass off and can still speak. “We play Finland tomorrow, and I expect you all to be up and ready to board the bus for morning practice at nine. Curfew is at ten tonight, and you will all be in your own rooms, sober.” A groan starts up, and he lifts a hand. “I don’t want to hear it. There will be no repeat of the hangovers before the Austria game. We can’t risk it, understood?”

Everyone nods.

“Good. Now it is New Year’s, and I know it’s not the easiest to be away from your families during the holidays, so you will have the rest of the afternoon to yourselves. Team dinner at 6, but before and after that, you can do what you want, as long as it’s legal.”

Sasha whoops, and Zhenya knows his afternoon is going to be booked doing whatever Sasha has planned. As long as he is back by eight, he has no complaints, and it’s probably a good idea to go and do whatever Sasha wants for the afternoon, so he can beg off that night.

“The bus heads back to the hotel in half an hour. After that, transportation is up to you.” He walks out, leaving them to finish showers and changing.

“Zhenya, my tour guide friend,” Sasha starts, “what are we doing today?”

“I’m not a tour guide,” Zhenya automatically responds.

“But you still know things to do here, don’t you,” Sasha smirks.

Sighing, Zhenya accepts his role as the team tour guide. “Yes. I want to go to Suomenlinna, an old sea fortress.”

Sasha doesn’t look particularly interested.

“We have to ride the ferry to get there; it’s on some islands.” Sasha’s expression doesn’t change. “There’re old cannons and underground tunnels and plenty of restaurants and a brewery, I think.” At the mention of tunnels to explore and beer to drink, most of the guys perk up, and Zhenya resigns himself to another team excursion.

It’s more enjoyable than the last; everyone seems comfortable with one another, settled, so when Sasha nearly pukes on the ferry, the entire team is laughing over his weak stomach. He flips them off, face a nasty shade of green, but is able to keep down his breakfast.

Despite Zhenya’s fears, no one gets lost in the winding tunnels, though several take advantage of the sharp turns and dark corners to hide and scare an unsuspecting teammate. Yezhov had tried to scare Zhenya at the beginning, but he’d been distracted by a plaque explaining the tunnel’s construction, so when Yezhov jumped out, it was in front of a Swedish couple and their young son, who burst into tears.

During lunch, they all drink a sensible amount of beer because coach’s threats still ring in their ears and not even Sasha is dumb to try and go against him this time. It’s fun, though, and Zhenya enjoys the afternoon, able to ignore the dull ache in his chest at the thought of his family celebrating the New Year together, exchanging gifts in their new home in front of a cozy fire. If he had a choice, he would be with them, but hockey is his future, and he has to make some sacrifices to make it to the NHL.

As the afternoon fades into evening, Zhenya finds himself looking at the clock more and more, counting down the hours to eight. He’s distracted during dinner, not noticing his teammates saying his name until the second or third time, much to their amusement. When it’s finally ten minutes to eight, Zhenya begs off from the game of cards Sasha is starting, claiming he is tired. Sasha just laughs and calls him an old man again.

With a few minutes to spare and feeling like he has something to prove, Zhenya stops by his room on the way back to change into the nicest clothes he has with him. It’s still warm-ups, but at least they aren’t stained or torn. He grabs the deck of cards stashed in his bag and snags one of his own sticks as an afterthought.

Before leaving the room, he jumps onto his bed, burrowing under the covers and shoving the pillows around; that way, if Sasha comes back before him, he can say he just stepped out of the room to grab a snack from the vending machine. That won’t explain why he has one of his sticks with him, though. Maybe he can say he was going to play a joke on Yezhov, hiding outside his room and jumping out with the stick in his hands. It would serve him right after making that kid cry.

Confident in his story and the state of his bed, Zhenya slips out the door and makes his way down the hall, head swinging from side-to-side and ears pricked for any sound of an approaching teammate. He isn’t worried about being scared, but he doesn’t want to be caught sneaking down the hallway to go visit a Canadian. The only thing worse than that would be sneaking down the hallway to go visit an American. Zhenya shudders and casts one last furtive look at the many closed doors, before turning into the small room to wait for Sid.

He won’t have to wait though because Sid is already standing there, fidgeting with the stick in his hands—so he had been right to bring his along—and jumping at the sight of Zhenya. He fumbles his stick, almost dropping it in surprise, and he is probably as nervous as Zhenya is about getting caught, but he’s here, and that brings a smile to Zhenya’s face.

“Hi,” he says, voice hushed and shy.

“Hi,” Sid answers, setting his stick aside. He seems hesitant, and Zhenya worries that he is about to say they can’t hang out, that he only came to tell Zhenya this friendship is a bad idea and they both need to focus on hockey, not each other. Zhenya wouldn’t blame him; it’s risky to meet in a small room in the same hallway all their teammates are sleeping in, but he’s willing to take the risk if Sid is.

Cutting off the destructive thoughts spinning through Zhenya’s mind, Sid steps forward and throws his arms around his neck, pulling him in for a warm hug. Zhenya is shocked. This is not the turn of events he had expected, but with Sid’s curls brushing his cheek and his warm breath sending shivers down his spine, Zhenya can’t complain. He circles his own arms around Sid’s waist and draws him closer until they are flush. He can feel heat rising in his cheeks as they stand pressed together.

A few seconds later, Sid pulls back, flushed and grinning. “You give the best hugs,” and Zhenya knows it’s a compliment, something kind Sid has told him, but he can’t parse out the words. “You,” Sid repeats, finger to Zhenya’s chest because they haven’t put more than a half meter between them, “give the best,” and he offers a huge thumbs up, “hugs,” he finishes, arms briefly sliding around Zhenya once more before letting go.

Beaming, Zhenya answers, “You best ugs.”

Sid smiles softly and shakes his head, “No, yours are the best,” and Zhenya can see how embarrassed he is to be complimenting a near stranger’s hugging abilities, but he can also see how determined Sid is to make Zhenya accept the compliment.

Tongue poking out between his teeth, Zhenya responds, “Okay, I best ugs. You best ugs after.”

A bemused look on his face, Sid repeats, “Best hugs after.”

“Yes, I best. You best after.”

Sid seems to realize Zhenya is messing with him, just a little, and shakes his head. “Maybe I’m best hugs after you, but I bet I could beat you in a game of cards,” Sid gestures to the deck in Zhenya’s hand, “or in a hockey contest,” he finishes, pointing at the stick Zhenya still holds.

Though he does not understand all of the words spilling out of Sid’s mouth, the message is clear, and he finds Sid’s confidence appealing rather than off-putting. He laughs and shakes his head. “No, I best.”

Sid looks affronted. “You’ve never even seen me play cards. You don’t know how good I am.”

“I best,” Zhenya retorts, and he feels irrationally pleased that he was able to pull together an answer so quickly.

“No way,” Sid says, dropping to the ground, legs crossed in front of him. “I can beat you at cards.”

Folding himself down, Zhenya pulls the cards out and begins to shuffle them. “Who you hockey?” he asks, having grown quite confident in his limited English.

“Who me hockey?” Sid looks perplexed. “I play for Canada, but I thought that was kind obvious with all the gear,” he says, waving at his tracksuit. “Back home, I play for Rimouski, but I don’t think you care about that. You wouldn’t even know where that is.”

Frustrated, Zhenya stops shuffling and wonders how he can get Sid to understand. A quick scan of the room provides little help, as there is nothing besides the ice machine and an old vending machine Zhenya is certain will eat your money and not give anything back. He is tapping the deck against the ground when he has an idea.

Carefully, he places a single card in front of him, then two in front of that, then three to finish it off. Pointing at the first card, he says, “Голкипер.” Sid stares at him, eyes on his mouth, tracking the movement. “Голкипер.”

“Golkiper,” Sid repeats. “Golkeeper.” And suddenly his face lights up. “Oh, goalkeeper! Goalkeeper. That’s the goalie!” He exclaims and nods vigorously to show Zhenya he has understood.

Zhenya beams back at him. “Голкипер. Golie.”

“Golkiper. Goalie.”

Zhenya moves to the next two cards and slowly says, “Защитники.”

“Zasheetneeky,” Sid repeats, following Zhenya’s lead. “Defensemen.”

“Deefencemin.”

Smiling, Sid repeats it slower, “Defensemen.”

Zhenya watches him form the word, eyes intent, and tries to mimic the sound. “Defensemin.”

“Yeah,” Sid says with a nod.

Moving to the forwards, Zhenya places a finger over the middle card. “Центр.”

“Tsinter, tsinter. That’s the center. Center. That’s what I play,” Sid says, one hand over his chest as he points at the card.

“You center?” Zhenya asks, and Sid nods. “I center.” Sid’s face lights up at Zhenya’s words, grin splitting his face.

“You’re a center, too? That’s awesome. We should practice together sometime. You can show me how you learned to play hockey in Russia, and I can show you how things are done in Canada. Obviously, there’s no way we can do that here, not with our teams breathing down our necks, but you’re going to the NHL, I know it. Flower said you were after he saw us talking this morning, which he thought was weird, but I told him I was just introducing myself.”

The stream of words crashes over Zhenya, and though he loves Sid’s voice, the tone and cadence comfortable and becoming familiar, he still understands every tenth word at most. Embarrassed, he shakes his head to let Sid know he didn’t get any of that, and Sid catches his lip in his mouth.

“Sorry, my mom says I’m a talker, especially when it’s about hockey or something else that I love, but that’s mostly hockey…and my family. She says I could talk about hockey all day and not get bored. Sorry.”

Shrugging, Zhenya admits, “Like. No sorry.”

Sid’s face scrunches up, nose wrinkling in the most endearing way. “Like what? Like hockey? I mean, yeah, you’re on the national team. I hope you like hockey.”

“No, no.” He shakes his head and combs his limited vocabulary for the right words. “Yes, like hockey. But, like you…” He holds a hand up, placing the thumb against his fingers before pulling them apart and back together in quick succession. “Like.”

“You like when I talk?” Sid asks, and he sounds incredulous. Embarrassed, Zhenya nods. “No one likes when I talk,” Sid says, shaking his head. “My teammates,” and he points at his Team Canada jacket, “always tell me to shut up.” He imitates Zhenya’s hand motion, but keeps his fingers pressed against the thumb, using the other hand to keep them closed.

“Team stupid,” and he can’t help the pride and warmth that sweep through him at Sid’s surprised snort.

“Whatever you say,” Sid responds, before drawing Zhenya’s attention back to the cards.

They go through all of the positions, repeating the words back and forth until they are satisfied with the other’s pronunciation. Then, Sid decides he wants to further develop his Russian hockey vocabulary and uses the rest of the cards to make a rough rectangle with the blue lines marked off and the circles each designated by a card. He points to various areas of the mock rink, giving Zhenya the English word in exchange for the Russian, struggling with the foreign consonants but determined to get them down. When he eventually tries to use the cards to map out plays, Zhenya grabs his hand and shakes his head, smiling widely.

Sid hesitates before nodding, “Yeah, you’re probably right. I’ll bring a pen and paper tomorrow.”

At the mention of tomorrow, a warmth settles in Zhenya’s belly. “Tomorrow,” he confirms and doesn’t know what to do about the twist in his gut when Sid grins. “Good. Like hockey, like family, da?”

“I mean those are the two most important things in my life.”

Zhenya nods, understanding the feeling in Sid’s eyes, even if he can’t understand all the words he speaks. “Yes, hockey here,” he says, gesturing to the cards spread out between them. “Who family?”

Cocking his head to the side, Sid looks at him quizzically, “You want to know about my family?”

Zhenya nods vigorously. If he had the words, he would tell Sid he wants to know everything about him.

Sid still seems hesitant, and Zhenya can understand. It is rather strange to have a teenage boy asking about your family as if he genuinely cares, but he does, and he tries to convey his sincerity nonverbally. Twisting his lip, Sid gathers the cards, and Zhenya’s heart stops, afraid he crossed a line, but his fear is for not, as Sid lays out two cards, a king and a queen, facing Zhenya. He then places a jack and a second queen below them.

Pointing at the king, he says, “This is my dad. His name is Troy, and he played hockey.”

“Dad, Papa, da?”

“Yeah, this is my papa, Troy,” he says, emphasizing the name, until Zhenya says it with him. “And this,” he moves to the queen, “is my mom, Trina.”

“Mama, Treena.”

“Exactly! And this is me,” he says, gesturing to the jack, “and this is my little sister, Taylor.”

“Seester.”

“Yeah, my little sister, Taylor. She’s seven,” he finishes, holding up seven fingers.

“Taylor, seven. You…” and he trails off, unsure how to ask Sid’s age.

Apparently, they have spent enough time together that Sid knows how to read into Zhenya’s silences and single words, or he is just a quick learner—Zhenya suspects the second more than the first. “I’m sixteen,” he answers and shows ten fingers, then another six.

He’s even younger than Zhenya thought. They don’t have a single sixteen-year-old on the team. He’s the youngest, and he’s a year older than Sid. God, he really is some kind of protégé, the future of hockey incarnate.

“Now you go. Who’s your family?”

Zhenya shakes off the shock and takes the cards Sid is holding out, shuffling through them to find a jack to replace Taylor’s queen. He then turns all the cards to face Sid and points to the King. “Это мой папа. Его зовут Владимир.”

“Vladimir?”

“Да, Владимир.” He moves to the queen. “А это моя мама, Наталья.”

“Okay, your parents are Vladimir and Natalia, and this is your brother?” Sid asks, indicating the second jack that Zhenya had added.

“Мой старший брат, Денис. Ему восемнадцать лет.” Zhenya holds up ten fingers, then eight.

“So he’s eighteen. Is he older or younger than you?” When Zhenya doesn’t answer, Sid gestures at the card representing Denis and holds up ten fingers and eight. Then, he points at Zhenya and shrugs.

“О, мне семнадцать лет,” and he raises ten fingers, then seven.

“Seventeen. You’re pretty young to be here, though I don’t have much room to talk, I guess. Do you miss them?” he asks, waving a hand over the cards.

Zhenya shakes his head to show Sid he doesn’t understand the question.

Biting his lip, Sid looks over the cards, devising a way to ask his question with their small shared vocabulary and the cards between them. Carefully, he picks up jack Zhenya and places him far from the others. “They are far away,” he states, hands waving to highlight the distance between jack Zhenya and his card family. “Does that make you sad?” he asks, lips sliding into a frown.

“Да, Я скучаю по ним,” and he can hear the rougher tone of his voice, the way the words catch in his throat. There are a few tears pooling in his eyes, and he has never been more embarrassed at how quickly he gets emotional over things.

Face drawn, Sid reaches out to place a hand on Zhenya’s knee, its warmth bleeding through the thin material of his pants. “I’m sorry,” he says, and he looks it. Any other guy would be chirping Zhenya for the tears and choked up voice, but Sid isn’t. “I get it,” and his thumb starts a soothing slide back and forth. “Me, too. I miss my family, too.”

Emboldened by Sid’s confession, Zhenya looks up and sees he is not the only one getting a little emotional. Sid hides it better, is able to speak clearly and confidently, but his eyes reveal the truth, and Zhenya recognizes the bone-deep sadness of someone who spends too much time away from their family, chasing their dreams but aching from the sacrifices it demands. In this moment, Zhenya feels like Sid understands him perfectly, and the thought makes him foolishly brave.

Shifting up onto his knees, uncaring of the cards that slip and slide on the ground, he reaches out and pulls Sid into his arms. The position is awful, Sid still sitting crosslegged, bent forward to rest his head on Zhenya’s chest, and Zhenya kneeling on the cold tile floor in a mess of cards. Sid moves away, and Zhenya worries he was too forward, that Sid has realized too much, but he just pulls his legs underneath him and rises to meet Zhenya’s hug.

It’s almost silent, the quiet broken only by the hum of machinery, until Sid lets out a muffled gasp and collapses further into Zhenya’s embrace. His shoulders shake uncontrollably, and Zhenya can feel spots of moisture on his shirt, growing the longer Sid remains tucked under his chin. Shocked, he folds himself more thoroughly around Sid, tightening his grip and rubbing a hand across his back.

“I miss them so much,” Sid mumbles, voice muffled by his position and tears. “I had to leave on Christmas Eve, and Taylor wouldn’t even talk to me before I caught my flight to Helsinki because I wasn’t going to be home for Christmas, and I wouldn’t be able to call her either because international calling is so damn expensive, and we can’t afford that.” Zhenya can hardly understand any of the tear-soaked words, but he knows what Sid is feeling anyways because he feels the same.

“I haven’t been home for Christmas in a couple years,” he continues, “and Taylor is growing up so fast, getting taller every year, but I don’t get to see that because I’m in Minnesota or Rimouski or fucking Finland, and she probably hates me because I’m never around, so I miss her hockey games and school performances and everything else that other people’s families get to go to. I’m the worst brother ever,” he sighs and falls silent, tucking his head further under Zhenya’s chin as he cries.

“Не плачь. Это нормально,” Zhenya comforts, one hand sliding up and down Sid’s back, the other carding through his curls. “Не плачь.”

Caught up in Sid’s distress and pain, Zhenya loses track of time, focused only on the irregular hitch in Sid’s breath and his quaking shoulders. His legs go numb after a while from the hard floor and the awkward way he is bent, supporting most of Sid’s weight. Finally, Sid pulls away, ducking his head to wipe at his face in embarrassment.

“God, I’m so sorry,” he says, horrified. “Seriously, so sorry. I can’t believe I just did that. God, I must seem like a little kid the way I complain and cry.”

“Sid,” Zhenya interrupts, and Sid flinches at the harshness in his voice. “No sorry,” and he softens his voice around the words. “You sorry always. Sorry, sorry, sorry. No, no like,” and Zhenya prays his words make sense. “I no like sorry.”

Sid balls up his fists and knuckles at his eyes, wiping away the last of his tears. “Sorry.” When he realizes what he’s done, he laughs quietly, and Zhenya smiles in response. “Right, I’m not sorry, no sorry.”

“No sorry,” Zhenya agrees and rests a hand on his shoulder, squeezing.

“I still feel dumb though, breaking down like that about my family. I already feel too young to be here; everyone thinks I’m too young to be here, too. And now I’m crying to you in front of the vending machine.”

“Okay, okay,” Zhenya tries to reassure him. “I no like, uh,” he gestures at his eyes, trailing a finger down his cheek like a fallen tear.

“Oh my God, of course you don’t. No one likes crying—”

“No,” Zhenya interjects again, frustrated at his own inability to communicate. “You…” and he repeats the hand motion.

“Cry,” Sid tells him.

“Yes, you cry, I…sad.” Zhenya nods to himself, reasonably confident he used the right word.

“I cry, you’re sad,” Sid repeats and tilts his head to the side. “It makes you sad when I cry?” he inquires, incredulous.

“Yes, da, no like cry. No like Sid cry. Make sad,” and God, is he relieved that Sid understood because he can’t stand the thought of Sid thinking his tears were a problem or that they bothered Zhenya because they didn’t. The problem was that Zhenya felt powerless, unable to say anything to comfort Sid because he only spoken Russian and horrifically broken English. “No family, Sid sad, okay, normal. No family, I sad, normal,” Zhenya says with a shrug. He has been on travelling hockey teams for long enough that he knows everyone misses their family, though some are less likely to admit it than others.

“Yeah, my mom says the same thing,” Sid sighs, voice a bit steadier. “It’s still hard though, being so far away, missing so much.”

Zhenya nods, though he doesn’t fully understand.

“Thanks, I guess, for listening to me and letting me cry on you,” he says with an embarrassed wave toward the wet spot on Zhenya’s shirt.

Flapping a hand between them, Zhenya disregards the unspoken apology. “Okay, Sid,” he tells him with a bit of force. “Always okay.”

Sid shrugs, a modest smile in place. “Thanks.” His eyes flick over Zhenya’s shoulder and widen. “Shit, it’s late.”

Turning, Zhenya catches sight of the small clock mounted on the wall, hands saying he has five minutes to get to his room before curfew. “Ебать,” he agrees, scrambling to assemble the scattered cards and shove them haphazardly into the box. He jumps to his feet and snatches his unused stick. “Tomorrow?” he asks, once Sid has risen as well.

“Yeah, eight?”

Zhenya shakes his head. “No, team game. Девять?” he suggests, struggling to hold onto his possessions, as he raises nine fingers.

“Oh yeah,” Sid answers. “You play Finland tomorrow. Nine should be fine. Here?” he asks, finger pointing to the ground.

“Da, here.” Zhenya darts forward for a quick hug, before pulling away.

“Good luck,” Sid offers.

“Thank you,” Zhenya says, making his way down the hall and into his room.

The lights are off when he slides in, though he can see a strip of yellow outlining the bathroom door and knows Sasha will be in there. Quickly, he sets his stick back in place and shoves the cards into his bag, trading his shirt and sweats for pajamas and sliding into his mused bed.

He hears the toilet flush and the sink run, before the door opens and light spills out, temporarily blinding him.

“Zhenya!” Sasha hollers, snapping the light off and stumbling over to his bed. Luckily it’s closest to the bathroom. “You have returned. I was worried you would miss curfew.”

He snorts, “Never Sasha. I actually want to play tomorrow.”

A scoff erupts from the lump Zhenya can just barely make out. “I want to play, too. We’re going to kick Finland’s ass tomorrow.” There is rustling as he shifts under the covers, the dull thump of a fist on the soft downy pillows he beats into the proper shape. “Where were you anyways? I was surprised when you weren’t here when I got back.”

Squeezing his eyes shut, Zhenya prays Sasha only just returned to the room. “Went to the vending machine for a snack, but it ate my money.”

Sasha snickers. “Serves you right, trying to buy a candy bar the night before a game. Nutrition is very important, if you want to play well.”

“And what do you know about nutrition, Sasha? You had five beers with lunch today.”

“Beer is better than chocolate,” Sasha asserts.

“Sure, sure.” Zhenya settles into a comfortable position and the pull of sleep drags him under. “Good night, Sasha.” He doesn’t catch the response, if there even is one.

\----

At breakfast the next morning, Zhenya can’t do anything more than catch Sid’s eye and offer a discrete nod. Sasha woke up energetic and more talkative than normal, chirping Zhenya for his late night snacking and badmouthing the Finnish team. Zhenya is so distracted by Sasha’s vivid descriptions of the carnage awaiting the Finns, he almost misses Sid, who is exiting the dining area with the same loud, French-speaking teammates he ate with yesterday. When their eyes meet for a brief moment, he smiles and tries to reassure Sid that everything is okay, that Zhenya won’t make fun of him for last night, that they are still friends, and Zhenya will be waiting for him tonight.

He smiles back, soft and shy, and Zhenya’s heart clenches in his chest.

“Then after that, we take out the back-up goalie to ensure they have no hope,” Zhenya tunes back into Sasha’s rambling, though it makes no more sense than it did before.

“Or we just score more goals than them and move onto the semifinals without any bloodshed.”

Pouting, Sasha whines, “You’re so boring, Zhenya. Absolutely no imagination.”

He rolls his eyes and begins to pile a plate with a hearty breakfast, ignoring Sasha’s complaints about needing a more creative center to work with and focusing on the day ahead of him, the game that night. Finland did well in group play, only losing to Canada 3-0 and beating the rest, slaughtering Ukraine 14-1. They are playing at home in front of their friends and family, an intimidating but invigorating experience, Zhenya had learned last year, so they have something to prove, and Zhenya won’t underestimate them. A tie or loss in group play didn’t send them home, but this is elimination play. A loss would send them packing for Russia, nothing to show for the last few weeks.

That do-or-die attitude permeates the locker room that evening, guys methodically taping their sticks until it’s just right or rubbing the medallions they wear around their necks, lips moving in silent prayer. Sasha is seated beside Zhenya, head bowed and legs bouncing. It annoys him, but he won’t say anything, can’t. Sasha needs to get in the zone; he needs to get in the zone.

Before heading out to the ice, coach has them huddle up, looks each of them in the eye with his ice cold gaze, and tells them to win because losing isn’t an option.

“We are the defending champions two years running,” he says. “Everyone wants to beat us because they don’t want to see us win it all a third time. Fuck that, we’ve worked our asses off to get here and fought our way through this tournament, and we deserve it just as much as anyone else. Now, get out there and play hard, fast, and clean. We’re not wasting time and scoring opportunities in the box, alright?”

“Yes, sir,” they answer, well-trained after a few games under Ishmatov.

He nods and lets them huddle together for a chant led by Sasha that would have Zhenya’s mama cleaning his mouth and ears out with soap. It gets the job done though, and they skate out onto the ice, ready to win.

The crowd around them is deafening, boos coming from the sea of white and blue. Zhenya can see the odd speck of red here or there, but they’re lost in the large assembly of Finns come to cheer on the home team. Zhenya has been booed before, has had taunts thrown his way, but this is different. The game hasn’t even begun, and Zhenya can already tell it’s going to leave him bone tired and wrung-out, win or lose.

Sasha comes to a stop beside him, showering him with snow. “Block it out, Zhenya,” he advises, face hard as he looks over the crowd.

“The puck hasn’t even dropped yet, and they already hate us.”

Sasha shrugs, the movement exaggerated by his pads. “Like coach said, we’ve won the last two titles. No one that isn’t Russian wants to see us win it again, but that’s not going to stop us. We can win this game, then get the Americans back for that sorry loss and beat the Canadians in the final.”

At the mention of Canadians, Zhenya’s mind automatically goes to Sid, and he wonders what it would be like to play against him, to slide into a face-off with him. He thinks about the focused look on Sid’s face as he tries to follow Zhenya’s garbled English or repeat the Russian words Zhenya teaches him. That’s probably the same face Sid makes when he’s skating down the ice, smooth and low, taking the puck coast to coast and sliding it in for a filthy goal or saucing it to one of his wingers for an assist. It’s quite the image, and Zhenya wants to see it first hand, wants to play against Sid and with him, though the second option is less likely.

First, they have to beat the Finns and the Americans after. Then, he can play against Sid.

The ref’s whistle signals the end of warmups, and Zhenya heads over to the bench, as the starting line-up makes their way over to the tunnels to be announced. He can feel Sasha’s leg, bouncing away, and he tries to focus on that rather than Sid’s soft smile or intense eyes. He grounds himself in the repetitive motion, letting it shake through him.

When the puck drops, he is entirely focused, tracking it across the ice and leaping over the boards each time coach taps his helmet. When he and Sasha connect for a truly beautiful goal, he can’t help the roar he lets out as they slam into the glass, surrounded by their teammates.

“We can win this,” Sasha yells at him, when they tie it up in the third period, and Zhenya throws himself over the boards to relieve the guys who just scored, heart thumping in his chest.

They play well, so well, and Zhenya can see his future: hockey, hockey with people as good as Sasha—though he won’t tell him that—hockey against people as good as them, and it’s an intoxicating thought. His dreams have never been this close to reality.

Then, Finland scores, and Zhenya feels his heart shatter. They play hard for the last few minutes, harder than they have the rest of the tournament, but it’s not enough. The bounces don’t go their way, and the refs call a bullshit foul on Komayev that has them fighting to ward off another goal in the power play, and time runs out.

The final buzzer seems to go on forever, a loud, indifferent noise that echoes in the quiet devastation of Zhenya’s mind. Around him, the crowd is roaring its approval, cheering for their fellow countrymen who have defeated the reigning champions. He struggles to his feet, legs weak, and skates into the handshake line, though he doesn’t want to congratulate them, doesn’t want to tell them “good game” or some other oft-repeated cliché. He wants to get out of his gear, pull the jersey over his head and toss it away, so he doesn’t have to remember how he has let his country down.

He knocks hands with every guy on the Finnish team, before hauling ass off the ice and into the locker room, where silence greets him, not even the rustle of fabric or the crash of thrown pads disrupting the stillness. Zhenya hates it and hates that he wasn’t able to do anything to prevent it. He takes in Sasha’s trembling shoulders and hitched breathing and knows not to intervene. Whether it’s sadness or anger or something in between, Sasha will let it roll through him, unresisting. He takes a seat in his own locker, leaning back and letting his head loll against the cool metal.

Finally, coach enters, eyes sweeping over the room, taking in the bowed heads and slumped shoulders of his team. “You played a good game,” he starts, and Zhenya lets out a small snort. “They played better, but you played a good game, so pick your heads up.” A few of the guys listen, though most do not. “I said pick your heads up,” and the rest follow suit. “It is disappointing to lose, especially with the hard work you have put in, and I am sorry it ended this way. We still have one more game—”

“Worthless game,” Sasha grumbles.

Coach levels him with a look cold enough to freeze hot water. “We still have one more game,” he repeats, “so we can leave here with a final win. I will give you the next twelve hours to do whatever you must to get over this loss. I don’t care what it is; don’t tell me. As long as it doesn’t keep you from playing, it’s free game. I expect you outside the hotel at noon tomorrow for practice. Be ready to work and ready to win in two days. Is that clear?”

“Yes, sir.” It’s weak, but Ishmatov doesn’t ask for more, just nods his head.

“Bus leaves in half an hour,” and he sweeps out the door.

“Fuck.” It’s a harsh exhale from Sasha, a small word packed with so much bitter disappointment. “We were so close, so damn close.”

“Yeah,” Zhenya agrees, bending to pluck at the laces of his skates, loosening them enough to yank them off. He follows that up with his shin pads and socks and continues until his gear sits in a sweaty, gross pile, his Russia jersey hidden beneath his shoulder and elbow pads. Out of the gear, he feels like he can breathe. It still hurts, but he knows that will fade with time and other victories.

He makes his way through a shower and onto the bus in a trance, trailing behind Sasha who is walking with Anshakov, whispering about the closest bars and the best places to find someone willing to keep them each company for a few hours. Zhenya is absurdly grateful that Sasha has found someone else to talk to about this and has left Zhenya alone since the ill-advised party. He just wants to crawl into bed and sleep for so long the memory of this loss grows dull and painless, but as he throws his gear bag down onto the bed, he sees the clock with its fluorescent red lights, shining 9:22 at him.

Fuck, Sid. He is late, late enough that Sid may have decided he wasn’t coming at all and returned to his own room. Fuck.

“Seryozha and I are going out. Do you want to come with us? You don’t have to pick anyone up, but there will be plenty of alcohol and good music.” Sasha looks so sincere, and Zhenya is once again reminded that Alexander Mikhailovich is much more than he appears.

“No, but thanks.” Between a hot, stuffy club filled with strangers and an hour alone with Sid, Zhenya will choose Sid. “I think I’m going to take a walk, though. Clear my head before getting to bed.”

Sasha eyes him concernedly. “It’s too cold for a walk, Zhenya, and I don’t want you getting lost.”

Rolling his eyes, Zhenya responds, “I already have one mother. I don’t need another. But if it makes you feel better, I’ll stay inside and walk around the hotel.”

“Good, yes, stay inside. And your mother is not here to keep you from being stupid and getting frostbite, so I must step in and fill her place temporarily.”

“Whatever,” Zhenya mutters, stuffing his hotel key into his pocket, aware he just wasted a few more precious minutes with Sid. “See you later,” he calls, as he shuts the door and hurries down the hall, praying Sid hasn’t left yet.

As he rounds the corner to enter, he finds him sitting on the floor, knees pulled up with his arms crossed over them to pillow his head. He startles at Zhenya’s arrival and blinks blearily up at him, before registering who he is seeing. Once he does, he scrambles to his feet and flings himself forward, trying to envelop Zhenya in a hug despite the height difference.

Zhenya tenses at first, shocked at Sid’s forwardness, but gradually, he gives into the feeling of being held and comforted and melts against Sid, letting him support most of his weight. Sid’s fingers find their way into his hair, carding through the still-damp strands as he quietly speaks.

“I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry, Zhenya. It was so close. I thought you had it in those last three minutes, that you were going to tie it up, especially with that feed to Ovechkin.”

“There?” Zhenya mumbles into his hair, unwilling to lift his head.

Sid smiles, and Zhenya only knows because he can feel it pressed against his neck, his lips brushing so lightly it tickles. He never thought about what it would feel like to have someone smile against his skin, but he finds he quite likes it.

“Of course, I was there,” Sid answers. “Even if coach hadn’t made us, I still would have gone just to see you play. You’re good, really good. You could go number one in the draft. God, you were so good,” and it doesn’t make anything better. It doesn’t change the score or advance them to the semifinals, but Zhenya feels better knowing that Sid thinks he’s a good player, number one draft material.

“Thank you,” he says and tightens his arms around Sid, straightening to support some of his own weight. “Happy you there.”

“Me, too,” Sid agrees and burrows further into Zhenya’s embrace. It’s strange how quickly he has grown familiar there: the cadence of his breathing, the heat of his skin, the soft sweep of his curls under Zhenya’s chin. He feels like Sid fits in his arms and in his life, and it’s a frightening thought, catching Zhenya unprepared and off guard.

For a moment, he panics, breath sticking in his throat and vision going foggy, because he only met Sid two days ago, and he will say goodbye in a few more, when he returns to Russia and Sid returns to Canada. He hardly knows this boy, but he has seen him cry, seen him smile; he has held him in his arms and whispered nonsense words to bring him comfort when he missed his family. He has already given a piece of his heart up to him, whether he knows it or not, and it scares Zhenya, how much he is already willing to do for Sid.

“I had kind of hoped you guys would win, so we could play each other in the finals,” Sid confesses against his collarbone.

Zhenya grunts, not understanding but too tired to exert the effort required to let Sid know.

“I thought it would be cool, playing against you.”

Zhenya tilts his head down and almost brushes a kiss against Sid’s forehead, before aborting the movement and dragging his nose over the messy curls. It probably isn’t much better. “You win,” he says into his ear and feels a shiver go through Sid’s body. “Tomorrow you win.”

“Yes,” Sid promises. “We’ll win tomorrow and then beat Finland or the US in the finals to take home the gold.”

“Yes,” Zhenya agrees. Sighing, he pulls away and instantly misses Sid’s warmth. “But sleep,” he adds. “Sleep and win.”

The smile Sid offers him in sleepy and slow, and Zhenya feels a little bad about the heady warmth it stirs in his stomach.

“You’re right,” Sid says and reaches out a hand, fingers extended to trace across Zhenya’s cheek, right where he took a nasty high stick in the second period. It stings a little, but that pales in comparison to the heat that boils beneath the surface at Sid’s touch. “You sleep, too, okay? You played well tonight, and you need rest.”

Zhenya stares at Sid, caught in his hazel gaze. “Спокойной ночи,” he whispers into the space between them.

“Good night,” Sid responds and turns to leave, waving at Zhenya as he heads down the hallway.

\----

When the alarm goes off the next morning, Zhenya’s first thought is that he and Sid didn’t set up a time to meet, and he groans into his pillow. He had been exhausted, worn down and strung out from the loss, and Sid had barely been able to keep his eyes open, so sleep had seemed like the highest priority at the time. He regrets that decision now.

Rolling over, he catches sight of Sasha crashed out on top of the covers, practically reeking of alcohol. He can’t remember him coming back and assumes he had crashed so hard, not even Sasha’s drunken stumbling in the dark had been enough to wake him.

He rubs a hand across his face, knuckling at the grit that has formed on his eyes and hissing when his fingers irritate the injury Sid had touched last night. It hurts more, and Zhenya is certain a nasty bruise has risen to the surface. He should have put ice on it last night.

“What time is it?” Sasha grumbles, words nearly indistinct, and Zhenya worries he might still be drunk.

“Time to get up,” he answers and drags himself out from under the covers. Looking over at Sasha, he grimaces. His hair is a wreck, like he hasn’t brushed it in a week, and he’s got bruises ringing his neck, red and purple and misshapen. It’s not until Zhenya notices the parallel scrapes on the strip of Sasha’s back showing beneath his shirt that he puts the pieces together and blushes a violent shade of red.

The boys chirp him for it, hoots and hollers echoing as Sasha peels his shirt off after practice. He looks proud of the deep scratches, claiming the depth shows how good of a time he gave.

“More scratches equals more fun, Zhenya,” Sasha stage whispers to him, wiggling his eyebrows.

“Yeah, and I am sure all those scratches are lots of fun under a pair of sweaty pads.”

Sasha taps a finger to the side of his nose and smirks, “Worth it.”

Zhenya raises an eyebrow, “Worth it, yeah? To look like you got put through a meat grinder. I can see the appeal.”

“Live a little,” Sasha tuts. “You should come with us next time, though,” and his voice has lost its mocking tone, growing serious. “It was fun, nice to not have to think about hockey or the loss. There were plenty of drinks and people to dance with.”

Zhenya isn’t convinced.

“Obviously, we can’t go tonight, but since tomorrow’s our last game, we’ll go out after and can sleep the hangovers off on the plane.”

Furrowing his brow, Zhenya asks, “I thought we weren’t leaving until the sixth.”

Sasha shrugs. “We weren’t, but since we aren’t going on to one of the medal games, coach moved our tickets up, so we can get back to our teams.”

Fuck. Fuck. That means tomorrow night is his last chance to see Sid before flying away and maybe never seeing him again. Zhenya likes to think he is good enough to make it to the NHL and stay there, but you never know. He could get injured in a month and never play hockey again. He could get pressured into staying in the Superleague instead of chasing his dreams overseas. That happens; he’s heard stories. Now, he feels even dumber for not having set up a time to meet last night and resolves to show up at nine and wait until curfew, in the hopes that Sid will stop by after his game.

Still a bit raw from the loss, the team decides against a collective outing, and Zhenya and Sasha make their way to their room to play a few rounds of cards and grab naps. Despite the deep sleep he got the night before, Zhenya still feels exhausted and wouldn’t mind a few extra hours of rest.

In the middle of a game of durak, Sasha shouts, “Zhenya, we never got each other presents for the New Year.”

Zhenya arches an eyebrow and looks at Sasha quizzically. “No, but that’s okay. We were busy with games.”

“Okay?” Sasha exclaims, penchant for drama coming out. “It’s not okay. We agreed we would get each other presents, so we are going to get each other presents.” He discards the deck and scrambles out of bed to throw on a jacket and shoes. “Come on,” he says, impatient with Zhenya who hasn’t moved from his reclined position. “If we are back in the next hour, we should still be able to get a good nap in before dinner, but you need to hurry.” He emphasizes the point by tossing one of Zhenya’s shoes at his head.

Zhenya doesn’t want to go out into the cold, snowy afternoon, but if he doesn’t, Sasha will never stop pestering him, will probably whine and cry about how Zhenya isn’t a good friend to him. Reluctantly, Zhenya pulls on warmer clothes, and they make their way outside, getting a blast or cold air and snowflakes for their troubles.

Neither familiar with Helsinki, they meander through the streets, until a row of stores catches Sasha’s eye, and he coos over the window display filled with handcrafted wooden cups and other knick knacks. They enter the store, and Sasha is immediately enthralled by all the unique gifts, exclaiming over a sweater he says his dad will love and cradling a delicate teacup for his mother. Despite the small size of the store, Zhenya quickly loses him amid the racks and rows of souvenirs.

He skims over the many options and figures he should maybe get some things to take back home to his family. His mother would like one of the vividly colored rugs hanging on the wall, and his father never says no to a good piece of chocolate, though he’s not sure which of the countless varieties to select.

“The one with gingerbread and dried fruit is a favorite this time of year,” an accented voice says, and Zhenya turns to see an employee hovering beside the large table of wooden mugs. She is smiling at him, and Sasha would call her pretty, but Zhenya thinks she’s about as pretty as every other girl he’s met.

“Gingerbread?” Zhenya repeats, unsure what a cookies is doing in a chocolate bar.

“Yes,” she answers and steps closer. Her nametag says Isla. “It’s the Christmas chocolate and is very popular around the holidays.” She grabs one of the packages off the shelf, and it’s a deep red with nuts and oranges printed on the wrapper. She offers him the bar.

Zhenya reaches out to take it just as Sasha comes crashing into his side. “Zhenya! Look at this,” he says, hands wildly gesturing to the tall hat sitting on his head. It’s bright and bold, blue fabric covered in strips of red and gold that shine in the light from above. His wide smile fades when he sees the girl still standing there, arm extended toward Zhenya. “Oh, sorry, sorry,” and he seems to be apologizing to the girl more than he is to Zhenya. “I just wanted to show this to my friend, but I’ll be going now. You carry on.”

“No, Sasha,” Zhenya, arm curling around his shoulder and pulling him back against him. “It’s fine.” He can see the girl’s face fall, but it doesn’t bother him. If she was looking to pick up a foreigner, she would have much better luck with Sasha. “She was just telling me which chocolate to buy.” He takes the package from her hand and politely thanks her, before turning to look at the rugs. His mother loves yellow, says it reminds her of the sun she misses so much this time of year.

Zhenya can hear the girl inform Sasha that the hat is traditional for the Sami people of Northern Finland and shouldn’t be mocked, and he grimaces, knowing she is taking her annoyance at him out on an undeserving Sasha. He keeps his back to them though, looking over the rugs, until one with yellow flowers catches his eye.

Sasha comes to stand beside him, as he pulls it down. “Sorry, I didn’t realize she was there. I would have given you some space if I had.” He sounds genuinely sorry, and that makes this all worse because he doesn’t need to be sorry. Even if that girl had thrown herself at Zhenya, he wouldn’t have wanted anything to do with her beyond polite conversation about various chocolate flavors.

“It’s okay,” he assures, moving to look at the wooden cups for Denis’ gift.

“No, it’s not. She seemed like a nice girl, fiery too,” Sasha says with a leer, “and by some stroke of luck, she was actually interested in your boring face.”

Gritting his teeth, Zhenya grabs one of the cups at random and heads over to where he thinks the register should be. “It really is fine, Sasha. I didn’t mind.”

Sasha scoffs, “She was a pretty girl willing to talk to you. I wasn’t going to encourage you to take her back to the hotel or anything, but you could have had a nice dinner together or something, once she got off work. Her Russian was good enough, you could have had a decent conversation.”

Zhenya bites his tongue, quelling the automatic desire to correct Sasha and let him know that Sid doesn’t need any Russian to communicate with him. They have only a handful of words between them, but it’s enough, more than enough. Gritting his teeth, Zhenya sets his items on the counter and avoids looking at the girl, who is glaring mildly, though he isn’t sure if it’s directed at him or Sasha or both. It’s probably both.

“It’s fine, Sasha. Stop talking,” Zhenya orders, voice rough with frustration. He pays and lets Sasha step forward to do the same.

The hat has disappeared somewhere between the chocolates and the register, but Zhenya isn’t going to ask any questions. He looks over Sasha’s purchases, noting the teacup and loudly-patterned sweater, and realizes neither of them found a gift for the other.

Once outside, they continue to peruse the windows, not finding anything that draws them in, until Zhenya spots a storefront full of glittering knives. Sasha gasps in delight when he points it out and decides they will pick out knives for each other.

Zhenya has no idea what Sasha would like, but from the way he looks them over, eyes wide and almost hungry, he assumes that sharp and pointy is about where Sasha’s tastes end. He winds up choosing a knife with a light birch handle and dark scabbard that has a tree stretching up its length, and he tucks in under the other gifts when Sasha says they have to wait until they part ways in Moscow before they can exchange them.

Zhenya shakes his head over Sasha’s eccentricities but doesn’t complain because they are heading back to the hotel and their warm beds, where they can escape the driving snow and crisp air.

Sasha breaks the comfortable silence, when they have left the bustling crowds behind them. “I’m still sorry for interrupting earlier. I swear I didn’t mean to.”

Zhenya’s jaw clenches. “I said it’s fine, and I meant it. Now, drop it.”

Sasha must take his terse response to mean he is still upset at Sasha for disrupting things rather than for apologizing incessantly. “No, it’s not fine, and I’m sorry.”

Halting, Zhenya glares at him. “Stop. You didn’t interrupt anything earlier. I was just looking at the chocolates, and she came up to tell me which was best to buy. It’s something any employee would do. I didn’t want to pick her up or take her to dinner or anything else. I just wanted to buy some chocolate for my papa.”

Squinting, Sasha cocks his head to the side and regards Zhenya with an air of suspicion. “You didn’t want anything to happen,” he says, slowly, as if Zhenya is the one who doesn’t understand.

“No.” He starts walking again, long legs eating up the sidewalk quickly enough that Sasha has to jog to catch up.

“You didn’t want anything to happen,” Sasha repeats, more confidently. “You didn’t want to take her out to dinner or to a club or anywhere. You didn’t want her.”

Lips pinched, Zhenya shakes his head but doesn’t say anything more.

“Why not?” And this is the worst question because Zhenya can never answer it honestly, not if he wants to keep playing hockey.

He shrugs, shoulders tight, and Sasha face scrunches up once more.

“How can you not know why you aren’t into someone?” he asks, incredulous. “That doesn’t make any sense.”

Zhenya shrugs again but offers up no answer.

“Then what are you into?” Sasha wonders.

In general? Men, Zhenya wants to say. Right now? A young man with hazel eyes and good hands, who tries to speak Russian with his thick Canadian accent, who is patient with Zhenya and seems to understand him no matter what. A young man who probably sees Zhenya as a friend, at most, because he likes women, just like every other hockey player except Zhenya.

Since he can’t actually say any of that, he mumbles out, “Don’t really like blondes,” and is relieved when Sasha nods in understanding.

“I get it. Well, I don’t really get it because blondes are gorgeous, but I get it.” Then, he falls silent, and they reach the hotel without any more uncomfortable questions. Zhenya collapses into bed, more tired than he expects, and falls asleep between one breath and the next.

He wakes to darkness and the steady, heavy breaths of Sasha, still out cold in the other bed. A glance at the clock tells him they need to get down to dinner if they want any food, and he heaves himself up.

“Sasha,” he directs toward the hair poking out from the blankets and gets a grunt in return. “Sasha, get up. Dinner started a half hour ago, and if we aren’t there soon, Anshakov is going to eat it all, and we’ll be left to fend for ourselves.” The answering grunt is only slightly more coherent, so Zhenya chucks a pillow at his head and goes to pull his shoes on.

“I’m keeping this pillow,” Sasha informs him, cuddling it to his chest before reluctantly sliding out of bed.

“I’ll just steal it back when you aren’t looking,” Zhenya answers.

They head to the dining room, making bets about the amount of food that will be left for them and hypothesizing about who they need to get onto for not waking them up. Neither wins the bet, though that’s probably because the rest of the team had straggled into dinner late, so no one has started on seconds yet, and it turns out the entire team might need to be reminded of their very existence because when they enter, Karpov looks at them and says, “I knew someone was missing.”

Sasha gasps, affronted, “Seryozha, how did you forget me? Forgetting Zhenya, I can understand, but me? Not possible.”

Zhenya shoves at him. “Shut up, Sasha. The world doesn’t revolve around you.”

“But Zhenya,” he retorts, face the picture of innocence, “it does.” Karpov boos and tosses a roll at Sasha, hitting him square in the chest. Watching the roll fall to the floor, Sasha glares at him. “Don’t waste food like that,” he deadpans, kicking the roll under Karpov’s chair and walking over to grab some food before it all disappears.

Zhenya follows suit, and they wind up taking some seats beside Karpov, who grins and gestures at them. “I saved these for you.”

Sasha tilts his head up, sniffing imperiously. “This doesn’t mean I forgive you for forgetting me,” he states, sitting gingerly in the chair.

The dinner conversation is centered mostly on the close game between Finland and the US, which resulted in the US moving onto the gold medal game in two days.

“Fucking USA,” Barulin mutters. “If we had won against Finland, we could’ve beaten them and then taken on Canada for gold.” There are nods from all sides. “And we could’ve beaten them,” he goes on. “They’ve got a solid team, but we’ve had time to settle, and we’re just as good, if not better.”

“Next year,” Zhenya says, “we’ll beat the US and take home the gold.”

Barulin looks at him strangely. “Most of us will be too old to play Juniors anymore, and you’ll be in the NHL. I doubt your team will let you leave for two weeks and miss so many games.”

The NHL has been Zhenya’s dream since he started playing on teams with boys several years older than him and realized he was better than most, that he could maybe make a career out of hockey. He loves the Superleague, loves playing for his hometown team and staying close to his family, but the NHL is a siren call he can’t ignore. It’s his chance to pit himself against the very best in the world, but sometimes it seems like nothing more than a dream: something he is always striving for but never achieving. Yet, each time someone talks to him about it, lays it out in no uncertain terms, he can’t believe he’s almost made it.

Barulin talks about the NHL like it’s a foregone conclusion for Zhenya. He is going to be drafted, and he is going to be good enough that he doesn’t get sent down to the Minors or back to the Superleague. It both excites and frightens Zhenya to think about.

“If they want me,” Zhenya responds with a deliberately careless shrug of his shoulders.

“Why wouldn’t they?” and Barulin is looking at him like he just said the sky is green or that Sasha has good taste in clothing.

Zhenya shrugs again, avoiding eye contact as he pushes his food around his plate. The thought of not being good enough dogs his every step; he knows he’s good, but is he good to enough to hack it in the NHL with its smaller rink and predominantly North American players? Maybe his playing style won’t fit. Maybe he’ll flame out in the first season and return to Magnitogorsk because he couldn’t make it overseas.

Barulin reaches out a hand, and damn, if he doesn’t look as uncomfortable as Zhenya feels. “They’ll want you,” and he says it with such finality that Zhenya can do nothing more than nod numbly.

When Barulin turns to speak with Khudyakov about some weird goalie ritual, Zhenya finds he’s lost his appetite. He stares at his food and tries to eat a bite or two, but it’s lost all its flavor. This is why he doesn’t think about the draft. This is why he puts his head down and plays good hockey. The what-ifs never seem to end, and he works himself into a panic for no good reason.

“What do you think, Zhenya?” Sasha pulls him out of his thoughts.

He’s unprepared for the question and has no idea what he should have thoughts on. “Think of what?”

Sasha looks at him funny. “Of the USA’s chances against Canada in the final. Weren’t you listening?”

Playing it off, Zhenya answers, “You talk too much for me to listen to everything.”

Sasha gapes at him in false shock and proceeds to explain how everything he says is important and Zhenya needs to pay more attention, or he’s going to miss something good.

Despite living in each other’s pockets over the last week and a half, Zhenya still hasn’t figured if Sasha is genuinely this confident—a worrying thought—or if it’s all an act he puts on—an equally worrying thought. Either way, he is harping on Zhenya for his inattention, so he puts aside thoughts about the upcoming draft and all the things that could go wrong, interrupting Sasha’s rant to give his opinion on the US-Canada match-up that isn’t technically decided yet (Canada still needs to beat the Czech Republic).

They transition from dinner to card games, getting regular updates on Canada’s total dominance of the Czech team from one of the managers, and before Zhenya knows it Sasha is yawning and making noise about returning to the room for bed.

Shocked, Zhenya stares at him, looks over at the clock on the wall which reads 9:03, and stares some more. “Who are you, and what have you done with Alexander Mikhailovich?”

“Zhenya,” he scolds, “we have a game tomorrow, and I need to be in peak condition.” Zhenya raises an eyebrow. “Also, I already mentioned that I plan on going out and getting absolutely trashed afterwards, so I need to make sure I sleep enough tonight so that I have the energy for that. You’re welcome to come, if you’d like,” he adds as an afterthought.

Shaking his head before Sasha has even finished speaking, Zhenya declines the offer, citing a dislike of hangovers during travel that Sasha accepts easier than he expects.

“Whatever you want, Zhenya. I’m going to bed though, or at least to the room. You coming?”

“Not yet,” Zhenya says, knowing he will slip away soon with excuses about getting up to bed as well, before going to wait for Sid, who he hopes will show up.

“Don’t stay up too late then.” Sasha ruffles Zhenya’s hair, which gets him a loud squawking protest, and walks out, laughter trailing behind him.

Zhenya combs his fingers through his hair, trying to set it at rights but almost certainly failing, and returns to the vicious game of eralash Yezhov had started. The game doesn’t end for another twenty minutes, and Zhenya is anxious to get upstairs. He knows Canada’s game ended a half hour ago, so the team should be finished up with showers and heading back to the hotel soon.

He makes his excuses to the guys, saying they’ll have to have a rematch tomorrow, and heads towards his floor. As he steps out of the elevator, he looks left and right before slinking into the tiny room to wait for Sid.

After five minutes of anxious pacing in an enclosed space, he regrets not stopping by his room to grab his book or something else for entertainment.

After twenty minutes, he feels like he might throw up. Sid isn’t coming. Sid has better things to do than stumble his way through a conversation with Zhenya, especially after clenching a spot in the final. Sighing he steps towards the entrance and almost collides with Sid, who has just skidded around the corner, breathless and red-cheeked.

“Zhenya,” he sighs and grabs him in a tight hug.

It takes Zhenya a moment to process what’s going, to switch from hopelessness at Sid’s absence to joy at his arrival. He inhales slowly and gets a lungful of the cheap shampoo Sid used to wash his hair after the game, and it smells familiar, comfortable, so Zhenya folds his arms around him and returns the hug fiercely.

“You win,” he mutters, nosing against the damp hair just beginning to curl. “Win good.”

Sid laughs, breath huffing out against Zhenya’s collarbone, sending a shudder through him. “Yeah, we did. We won.” He pauses. “Gonna beat the US for the gold,” he says, and it sounds like a promise.

“Yes,” Zhenya agrees.

“Dude, Sid, what are you—” The question is cut off, as one of Sid’s teammates comes into view and catches sight of them. It’s one of the guys Zhenya had seen him with at breakfast, one of the French Canadians.

“Flower!” Sid shouts and jumps out of Zhenya’s arms, cheeks rivaling the red of his Canada gear. “I, uh. I can. Well, I wasn’t—” He starts and stops more times than Zhenya can count and eventually falls silent, eyes downcast, sucking his lower lip between his teeth.

The teammate, Flower, is watching them with raised eyebrows, gaze darting back and forth between them. He seems like he wants to say a million different things but can’t decide which is the most pressing, and Zhenya doesn’t know what to say to cut through the strange tension. Flower—what kind of a name is that?—doesn’t seem upset or angry to have found his teammate hugging a Russian, just confused.

“Is this where you’ve been sneaking off to every night? You’ve been coming here?” and Zhenya only understands the last word but is able to figure out the rest when Sid answers.

“Yeah.” He doesn’t look embarrassed at the admittance, but he looks at bit sad. “This is Evgeni,” he continues, gesturing to Zhenya, who likes that Sid remembered his full name and really likes that Sid didn’t share his diminutive, almost as if it isn’t something he wants to share with Flower, the teammate. “Evgeni, this is Flower, my teammate. He’s a goalie, a goalkeeper. Golkiper?”

And Zhenya is utterly charmed that he is attempting to use his limited Russian vocabulary for Zhenya’s sake. “Голкипер,” Zhenya corrects him, before holding a hand out to Flower, the goalkeeper. “Nice to meet.”

Flower’s eyebrows seem to have disappeared into his hairline, and Zhenya doesn’t know what he might find most surprising: the comfortable way that Sid introduces them, as if nothing unusual is going on here; Sid’s butchered Russian; or the fact that Sid seems to have drifted closer to Zhenya over the course of the introduction, arm brushing his.

“It’s nice to meet you, too,” Flower answers, reaching out to clasp Zhenya’s hand briefly, and Zhenya can tell English isn’t his first language either. “How did you meet?” he asks, directing the question at Sid, surely noticing Zhenya’s less-than-stellar English.

Sid shrugs. “We ran into each other a few days ago, got to talking, and that’s it.” It’s short, vague, and apparently not good enough.

“That’s it?” Flower repeats, disbelievingly. “You ran into each other, got to talking, and now you run off to hug him in secret rooms?”

Sid shrugs again, and his cheeks are redder than they were before, if that’s even possible. “We’re friends,” and it comes off defensive enough that Flower raises both hands and takes a step back.

“Of course, sorry. I see that. I was surprised, but it’s fine.” He looks as uncomfortable as Zhenya feels. “It’s fine, Sid, and you know, I think I will go back to my room now, yeah. Bye,” he finishes with an awkward wave, before backing out of the room and walking away.

“I’m so sorry,” Sid starts. “I didn’t realize he was behind me, otherwise I wouldn’t have,” he waves his hand around, as if that helps explain anything. “I’m really sorry about that. I promise he won’t tell anyone. Flower can be weird and an asshole when playing pranks, but he’s a good friend. He won’t talk.”

Feeling a bit reckless, Zhenya snatches one of his waving hands out of the air. “Sid, Sid, no sorry. No sorry. Okay. Everything okay.”

Exhaling, Sid’s stops his rambling but doesn’t pull his hand out of Zhenya’s grip, “You’re right. I just kind of panicked.” He takes another, deeper breath. “I think I’m still a little hyped up from the game, and the guys took longer to celebrate afterwards, so I was worried that you would be gone by the time we got back, and I had no idea if I would see you again, and I was just so worried I didn’t even notice Flower coming.”

Zhenya clasps Sid’s hand in both of his and brushes his thumbs over it, soothing. “Okay. Okay.”

Sid closes his eyes and nods. “Yeah, it’s okay. Everything is okay.” He squeezes one of Zhenya’s hands and pulls away. “I’ll talk to Flower later, and it’ll be fine.”

Zhenya smiles, nodding. “Okay.” He understands Sid’s concern, can feel a low-level panic simmering beneath his skin, and he knows he’ll have his own, private freak out about this later because Sid’s teammate caught them. Not that they were doing anything wrong, but Zhenya is certain Flower’s going to ask questions, and he wishes he knew what the answers would be.

Zhenya deliberately stops that train of thought and turns to look at Sid, who is still standing close. “Good game, good win,” he repeats.

Smiling gratefully, Sid accepts the change of topic. “Yeah, it was a good game. We played really well together, and I think we’re ready to take on the US. They’ve got some good guys, and Parise is definitely on a hot streak, but we can take them. What, uh, what did you do today? Your game’s tomorrow, so did you guys go out or anything?”

Zhenya can’t quite figure out what he is trying to ask, and he shakes his head sadly.

“Oh, sorry.” Sid bites his lip again, scraping his teeth across the skin in the most distracting way. “Today, no game for you.” He glances at Zhenya to gauge his understanding and continues. “Did you play cards?” and he mimes dealing. “Did you go sightseeing like tourists?” and he acts like he taking pictures and oohing and ahing over different things.

Grinning widely, Zhenya nods. “Little bit. Me and Sasha, Александр Михайлович, uh, Aleksander Ovechkeen, we…” Zhenya has no idea how to explain his day. “We buy…” he trails off again, “подарки.”

Sid blinks at him, and Zhenya sighs. As soon as he gets back to Russia, he is going to take up his English-learning again.

If Sasha weren’t back in the room, Zhenya would just go grab the bags and show Sid the gifts he had bought for his parents and brother. That would be easier. But Sasha is probably still awake and would find it strange if Zhenya came to get the presents.

Looking at Sid, he starts again. “We buy,” he says and reaches up a hand to pull something off an invisible shelf. He turns his hand this way and that, looking the item over, before returning it and grabbing another. He nods his approval and says, “I buy.”

“You went shopping?” Sid asks, smile splitting his face. “You bought stuff?”

“Yes! Buy.” He then sets the item on an invisible table and begins wrapping it in invisible paper. He feels ridiculous, hands moving through the air, folding the paper around a present that doesn’t exist. Once complete, he sets it aside and says, “Mama.” He grabs another nonexistent gift and repeats the process, saying “Papa” at the end.

“Oh,” Sid exclaims, eyes lighting up. “Gifts, they’re gifts for your family!”

“Da,” Zhenya nods enthusiastically, so excited that Sid understood his charades.

Sid’s smile dims for a moment, and Zhenya doesn’t know what he did wrong. “You missed Christmas, too, didn’t you? You didn’t get to open presents with your family because you were coming out here.”

“Krismas?” Zhenya asks. The word sounds familiar, but he can’t place it.

“Christmas, yes. You know, presents under the tree and a ham dinner with family and Santa.” Sid holds his arms out in front of him like he’s holding a large ball and says, “Ho, ho, ho,” shaking his arms up and down.

Zhenya squints, trying to decipher Sid’s words and actions. “Santa?”

“Yeah.” Sid drops his arms back down. “He brings presents to kids and puts them in their stockings. I mean, I know it’s my parents who do it, but kids believe it’s Santa.” Sid mimes opening something up and pulling an item out. “For Zhenya,” he says and hands it to him. “For Sid,” and he pretends to rip the wrapping off a present and exclaim over what’s inside, showing it off to Zhenya. “Santa brings presents at Christmas,” he finishes.

Nodding, Zhenya runs the words through his head again, putting together the picture Sid created. “Santa, presents, Christmas.” He nods more decisively. “Yes, but no.”

It’s Sid’s turn to be confused. “What do you mean no?”

“Christmas small in Russia. Not, uh, important. Not big.”

“You don’t celebrate Christmas?” Sid doesn’t seem to believe him and is shocked when Zhenya shakes his head.

“No, in Russia, Новый год. New, uh, new day?” He shakes his head, knowing that’s not quite the word he wants. “New…”

“New day? Do you mean New Year, like the first of January?” he asks and holds up one finger.

“Yes! Yes, New Year. New Year in Russia.”

Sid still seems confused. “You celebrate the New Year instead of Christmas? Why?”

“Коммунисты,” Zhenya answers with a shrug. “Не религия. Не христиа́нство.”

“Kommoonisty?” He sounds it out several more times, working the word over until he understands it. “Oh, communists! The communists, right. No state religion, eh? Which means no Christmas, so they made New Year’s the big holiday for gift giving. Makes sense.” Sid’s smiles, self-satisfied. “You missed New Year’s because of this tournament, so you bought gifts for your family.”

Zhenya understands most of his summary, picking out the words he already knew and those that Sid used earlier. “Yes, buy…” He looks at Sid for help.

“Gifts,” he fills in.

“Gifts for family.”

“That’s great! I went shopping a few days ago and found a bracelet that Taylor will love,” he says a little wistfully.

“Smart,” Zhenya tells him and wants to steer the conversation from Sid’s far-away family, not wanting him to cry again when there is nothing Zhenya can do to make it better.

“Yeah,” and Sid’s voice wavers just a bit.

“Sister love.” Zhenya wraps an arm around him and tucks him under his chin.

Sid breathes shakily for a minute, but Zhenya doesn’t feel any wetness gathering on his t-shirt. “Yeah, she will.”

“Good,” he says into Sid’s hair, before pulling back to point at the clock. It’s past his curfew, not by much, but he needs to get to his room before Sasha comes looking for him, if he isn’t already asleep. “Sleep.”

Sid follows the direction of his hand, and his eyes go wide. “Oh geez, it’s late, and you have a game tomorrow. I’m so sorry!” He steps out of Zhenya’s arms.

“No, Sid. No sorry,” and he pulls him back in for a last quick hug. “Tomorrow?”

Sid nods against his chest. “Of course. After your game?”

“Yes.”

He can feel Sid swallow, and it seems too intimate, but he doesn’t pull away. “When do you leave?” and his voice sounds small.

“Leave?”

Reluctantly, Sid separates them. “When do you fly back to Russia?”

Zhenya’s chest tightens at the question and the reminder that their time together is quickly drawing to a close. “After tomorrow,” he answers and hears Sid’s sharp inhale.

“In the morning?”

“Yes.”

“Oh.”

It falls silent after that, and Zhenya’s throat feels too tight. He knew he was only here for a few weeks and would have to return to Russia eventually. The thought hadn’t seemed so bad two weeks ago. Now, it feels like a death sentence for his friendship with Sid. Chancing a look at Sid, he can see him chewing on his lip again, lost in thought, before nodding purposefully.

“Okay. You leave after tomorrow. That’s…not ideal, but you have a team back in Russia probably, so you can’t stay here forever. That’s fine. That’s good.” He seems to be talking to himself more than Zhenya. “I’ll see you tomorrow then, after your game.” He looks up at Zhenya one more time before walking out of the room and down the hall.

Zhenya doesn’t know what to think of that. He may be projecting, but Sid had seemed almost sad when he told him he would be leaving soon, but then he had left so quickly Zhenya didn’t know what to think.

Slowly, he makes his way to his own room, replaying the end of their conversation over and over in his head, becoming more and more convinced that Sid was sad at the thought of Zhenya leaving, and he didn’t know what to do about that. If Sid didn’t like the idea of being apart, maybe he wouldn’t mind exchanging numbers with Zhenya or maybe emails. International calls were expensive after all, but email was good. That would give Zhenya more time to think about what he says and make sure his translations don’t suck.

Slipping into his room, he resolves to bring a pen and paper with him tomorrow and maybe a parting gift of some kind. Is that too much? Zhenya can just say it was a late New Year’s present, and because it is tradition to give friends a gift, Zhenya wants to offer one to Sid. He has no idea what to give him though, certainly not something from Finland. Sid can get souvenirs for himself if he wants them. Something Russian, then. Would Sid even want something Russian? Would he be offended at Zhenya offering him another country’s colors? God, he doesn’t know, and he is so tired, wrung out from the anxiety of Sid showing up late and of his teammate catching them—

Zhenya shuts that thought down immediately, stifling the rising panic. He can think about that tomorrow. He is so tired, and he needs sleep if he wants to play well against Slovakia tomorrow.

\----

After a light morning skate, Zhenya goes through his suitcase, carefully looking over each item of clothing to determine if any are suitable gifts for Sid. Unfortunately, most are dirty because Zhenya isn’t any good at doing his laundry at home, so doing it during a tournament in a foreign country is out of the question. He should work on that, though. If he plans on being in the NHL next season, he’s going to have to learn some basic life skills because his mama won’t be there to do things for him.

He has almost resigned himself to finding a housekeeper that he can ask about laundry services, when he remembers the shirt he had stuffed into a pocket of his suitcase without a second thought. Coach had handed them out the first day, and Zhenya had been too lazy to open his bag, choosing to cram it into the front pocket where it should still be.

He flips the top of the suitcase back over and can see a tell-tale bulge. When he fishes the shirt out, it’s a little wrinkled but clean, and without any other viable options, Zhenya decides that it will have to do. He carefully folds it and puts it in one of his shopping bags along with the pen and pad of paper he stole off the desk.

Everything in order for the evening, Zhenya heads downstairs to grab lunch before his pre-game nap. Sasha is already halfway through a massive sandwich, when Zhenya makes his way over, his own reasonably-sized sandwich on a plate.

“It’s a good thing you have such a big mouth, Sasha, otherwise you’d never be able to eat that thing.”

Sasha’s response is a wagging tongue, covered in half-chewed sandwich. It’s disgusting, and Zhenya shakes his head.

“Don’t be mean, Zhenya,” he finally says, after swallowing. “Anyways, no woman has ever complained about the size of my mouth.”

Zhenya doesn’t even understand what that means.

“Speaking of women,” Sasha continues. “We’re planning on hitting up a few bars and maybe a club or two after the game tonight. Coach isn’t going to set a curfew tonight, says he doesn’t care how late we stay out so long as we are ready to leave at seven tomorrow morning.”

“Seven?” That’s criminally early in Zhenya’s opinion.

“Yup. I don’t plan on going to sleep at all.” Zhenya grimaces at the thought. “You’re still welcome to join us if you’d like.”

“No thanks. A few hours of sleep are better than none.”

Sasha rolls his eyes dramatically. “So boring, Zhenya. It’s our last night in Helsinki, and you prefer to spend it sleeping in a crummy hotel bed instead of partying with some lovely Finnish women.”

“I prefer,” Zhenya corrects, “to not be dead on my feet while I’m trying to get home. Anyways, I already told you I don’t like being hungover when I have to fly.”

“Boring.” Sasha takes another couple bites of his sandwich, before changing topics. “You ready for tonight?”

“Of course,” Zhenya responds confidently, launching into a rant about how they’re going to hand the Slavs their asses.

They don’t, but they do come out with a win, and Zhenya will take it.

It was a chippy game, too many penalties on both sides and a lot of yelling about ugly mothers and cheating girlfriends, and Zhenya is so happy to beat them. Their tie at the beginning of group play had been disappointing, so this feels like redemption and relief, and though they won’t leave the tournament with a medal, they will leave it with one last victory, and that feels good.

The locker room is jubilant after. Someone managed to get a couple packs of beer in, and they’re being passed around to celebrate, tossed from hand to hand, spilling out onto the floor in sticky puddles. It’s warm and doesn’t taste right, but Zhenya doesn’t care. He downs his and accepts a second, suddenly anxious to return to the hotel to see Sid again, maybe for the last time. He knows he has a game tomorrow and probably a curfew tonight, so the longer they stay here, the less time he gets with Sid.

“We need to shower,” he hollers at Sasha, who is standing in his stall, dancing, his beer sloshing out.

“What?” he yells back over the den of noise.

“We need to shower. The sooner we get back to the hotel; the sooner you can go out.” He hopes Sasha is too focused on the prospect of clubs and ladies to wonder why Zhenya is in a rush to get back.

He nods, sagely, then shouts for attention. “Boys,” he starts. “Men, head to the showers and get dressed fast. This party will be even more fun with some feminine company, and we can’t get that here, so clean up quick, and we can go.”

It gets a swifter response than Zhenya had expected, pads and jerseys flying all over the place, as they strip to get to the showers. Alcohol and women are apparently all they need to get moving. Zhenya can’t judge though; all he needs is a pair of warm, hazel eyes. He would be embarrassed if he wasn’t so worried about getting back to see Sid.

The bus ride takes ten years, in Zhenya’s opinion, so when they finally pull into the parking lot, he is the first on his feet, hustling the other guys out. Once he’s in his room, he moves to grab the bag with Sid’s gift but is halted by Sasha loud complaining.

“Zhenya, I have nothing to wear,” he mourns, rifling through his suitcase.

“Just wear what you wore when you went out last time.” His response is snippy and impatient, and he tries to visibly relax. He won’t be able to leave until Sasha does.

“I can’t wear that again.” God, Sasha is whiny.

“Why not?”

“Because I already wore it.”

Zhenya inhales slowly, offering a quick prayer for patience. “It’s all you have, Sasha. I’m sorry. Next time, bring more clothes.”

Sasha grumbles but grabs the dirty clothes and heads to the bathroom to change.

Lolling his head back against the pillow, Zhenya reaches out for the book on his nightstand and flips it open. He had expected to read more during the tournament, but between Sasha’s constant need for entertainment and Sid’s mere presence, his book has been mostly forgotten. He hardly remembers what was even happening in the story.

Sasha bursts out of the bathroom. “This is your last chance, Zhenya. Are you sure you don’t want to come?”

Groaning, Zhenya holds his book higher. “Go have fun for me, Sasha.”

“Boring, old man,” Sasha says, and it almost sounds fond. He leaves it at that, grabbing his wallet and room key before heading out the door, yelling for anyone who plans to join them to “come now or miss out on all the fun”.

Zhenya listens at the door, waiting for the last footsteps to fade before snatching the bag and heading down the hall. He has an hour, probably less.

Sid is already there, leaning against the wall and fiddling with the hem of his jacket. He startles when Zhenya comes around the corner but the shock immediately transforms into a smile that tugs at Zhenya’s heart.

“Hi,” he greets.

“Hi.” Zhenya wants to hug him, thinks it might be well-received or even welcomed. He steps forward and opens his arms, and Sid falls right into them. It’s a relief.

“Congratulations,” Sid whispers, just loud enough for Zhenya to hear. “You had a good game.”

“Thanks,” Zhenya answers, squeezing Sid once before letting him go. He looks at the clock over Sid’s shoulder and despairs. “When sleep?” he asks.

“Huh?” Sid looks back at the clock, frowning. “Oh, I have to be in my room my ten thirty.” He holds up ten fingers then one crooked in half, and Zhenya smiles, thinking of when he used that the day after he met Sid to tell him what time he had practice.

His smile falls as he does the math, though. They barely have a half hour before Sid needs to be back in his room.

“Okay,” he grabs the pen and paper and holds the bag out for Sid. “For you,” he says, nervous to finally give the present to Sid. He might not like it, or he might think it’s weird that Zhenya is even giving him a present.

Sid’s brow furrows, but he reaches out and takes the bag. “What is it?”

“Gift,” Zhenya answers, simply. “Krismas.”

Sid’s eyes light up. “You got me a Christmas gift? Zhenya, you didn’t have to. Seriously, that’s too much. I don’t have anything for you.”

“Okay,” Zhenya reassures him and gestures at the bag, waiting for Sid to open it, hoping he doesn’t hate it.

Gingerly, he reaches into the bag and pulls out the t-shirt, holding it up with both hands to get a better look. “Oh,” he gasps. “It’s a Russia shirt. You got me a Russia t-shirt.”

Zhenya isn’t sure whether he sounds happy or not, so he explains. “For you, so no…uh, no lose me.” It isn’t the right word, but he thinks it makes sense, that Sid will understand what he is saying.

“It’s so I don’t forget you? So I remember you?”

“Yes, no forget.” That’s the word he had wanted.

Sid grins at him. “Awesome!” he breathes out. “Wait right here.”

Zhenya watches him dart out of the room, shirt clutched in his hand, and doesn’t know what to think. Sid had seemed excited about the shirt, but maybe he was wrong. Maybe it was a bad idea, giving Sid a gift, especially a Team Russia shirt. Maybe Sid thought it was weird that Zhenya didn’t want him to forget him. Maybe this whole friendship means more to Zhenya than it did to Sid. Maybe—

Maybe Sid just needed a second to appreciate the awesomeness of Zhenya’s gift because he is back, still holding the shirt in one hand, while the other is tucked behind his back. He grins at Zhenya and extends his hidden hand. “This is for you.”

It’s clearly an article of clothing, probably a t-shirt, and he is giving it to Zhenya. Slowly, Zhenya takes the shirt in hand and holds it up. There’s a giant white maple leaf taking up most of the shirt, which is a bright red, and it’s so obviously a reminder of Sid, one that he wants Zhenya to take home with him, and he doesn’t know what to say.

“Thank you,” he mumbles, voice thick with tears. “Like. Very good.”

Sid grins, bashful. “I like this one, too,” he says, holding up the Russia shirt. “I thought you could use something to remember me by, too.”

Zhenya nods, speechless. He is probably overthinking things, but this gift, this obviously Canadian gift, makes Zhenya think Sid cares as much as he does, wants to remember Zhenya and be remembered by Zhenya. It’s overwhelming.

“I know we don’t have much time,” Sid starts, “but I was hoping we could stay in touch, even when we’re both back home, you know.” He must misinterpret Zhenya’s look for something besides confusion because he continues, rambling, “I mean, only if you want to. We don’t have to. I just thought with the shirt and all that maybe you would want to exchange numbers or, or emails or something. I don’t know. If you don’t want to, that’s fine. Just say so.”

Zhenya clasps a hand around his shoulders, cutting him off. “Slow, Sid. Repeat, please.”

Sid blushes fiercely. “Right, slow, sorry.” He takes a deep breath and lets it out. “You leave tomorrow. You go back to Russia, and I go back to Canada. But,” he bites his lip, “but, if you want, we can still talk.”

“Talk?”

“Yeah, we can call each other,” Sid curls his three middle fingers in, leaving the thumb and pinkie extended, and holds his hand up to his ear. “Call.”

“Yes,” Zhenya agrees, nodding vigorously because he understands and wants that; he brought a pen and paper for that exact purpose. “We call.” He holds the pen and paper out to Sid. “Number.”

“Oh, you already have something to write on. Oh God, now I feel dumb.” Sid takes the pen and scribbles on the pad of paper. “You were already going to get my number, weren’t you? Shit, I’m ridiculous. Should I write my email, too? International calls are kind of expensive. Yeah, I’ll include that, too.” He finishes and tears the paper off to hand to Zhenya. “Here is my phone number,” he says, pointing at the string of numbers, “and my email.” When he finishes, he lifts his hands and taps at an invisible keyboard. “Email might be better.”

“Email good,” Zhenya tells him, clutching the paper in his hand like it’s something precious.

“You should give me yours, too,” Sid says and returns the pen and paper to Zhenya.

Zhenya is careful to write his name, number, and email as clearly as possible, knowing the Cyrillic characters will be foreign to Sid. Zhenya is no English expert, but he has taken classes, has travelled around enough to be familiar with the English alphabet. Sid probably has no exposure to written Cyrillic and has only ever heard Russian spoken by Zhenya and maybe a few other hockey players, though that’s mostly likely just trash talk from games.

When he finishes, he hands the paper to Sid and watches him take in the information, a furrow between his brows. “Is that your name?” he asks, bewildered.

Zhenya can’t help the chuckle that escapes him. “Yes, Евге́ний Влади́мирович Ма́лкин,” he says, slowly tracing his finger over the word, so Sid can follow along.

“Vladmiravich. Is that your middle name?”

“Middle name?”

“Yeah.” Sid takes back the pad of paper and pen, writing on it before holding it up for Zhenya to see. “Sidney Patrick Crosby. Patrick,” he says, pointing at the word, “is my middle name.”

“Where from?”

“Uh, my mom picked it,” Sid answers, shrugging. “I think it’s an old family name, but I’m not actually sure. Why?”

Zhenya shakes his head. “Влади́мирович not middle name. Vladimir,” he says, underlining Влади́мир on the paper, “son,” he finishes, gesturing to the ович. “My papa Vladimir.”

“Oh!” Sid exclaims, eyes lighting up with understanding. “It means Vladimir’s son because you are Vladimir’s son. Is that how everyone is Russia does it?”

Zhenya cocks his head in question.

“Do all Russians do this?” he asks, pointing to the patronymic.

“Yes, all Russians.”

Sid ponders for a moment, jaw tensing and releasing reflexively. “So your kids will be called Evgeniovich?”

God, Sid is smart, so smart and so sincere, and Zhenya doesn’t know what to do with him. “Close,” he says. “Son Евге́ньевич,” emphasizing the е that replaces the о because his name ends in a vowel. “Daughter Евге́ньевна. Boy -evich or -ovich, girl -evna or -ovna.”

“Cool,” Sid says, smiling. “That’s really cool.”

“Russia cool,” Zhenya states, proudly. “Russia best.”

Sid laughs loudly, breathless with it, and Zhenya can’t resist joining in, charmed by the giggling and intermittent honks unique to Sid. They laugh until their shoulders shake and tears stream down their faces, and Zhenya doesn’t really think what he said was very funny, but Sid’s laugh keeps setting him off, which then makes Sid laugh harder. It’s a vicious cycle Zhenya never wants to escape.

Wiping the tears from his cheeks, Sid grins up at Zhenya. “I’m sure Russia is great, but I prefer Canada.”

Zhenya puts on a faux grimace. “Canada? No, no. Not Canada. Canada number two. Russia number one.”

Sid snorts. “Whatever you say, but we’re playing in the gold medal game tomorrow, so I think that makes Canada the best.”

The mention of Canada’s success in the tournament and Russia’s unspoken lack of success dampens the mood between them, and Zhenya frowns.

“Shit,” Sid mutters. “Shit, I’m sorry. That was rude. Please, forget that. I shouldn’t have said anything.” Sid is a talker, Zhenya has come to realize, especially when he is embarrassed or upset or nervous. “I’m really sorry about that.”

“Sid, okay. No sorry.” And Zhenya wonders where Sid picked up this awful habit of apologizing all the time, but he wishes he would stop. He shouldn’t be afraid to talk about his team’s success; he should be proud to be playing for the gold medal, proud of the hard work that has led him here. “Canada good. Canada win. Okay. Russia lose.” Zhenya shrugs. “I sad for lose, but happy for you.”

Sid gives him a lop-sided smile. “Next year, though, okay. Next year, you’ll win, and we’ll play each other for the gold medal.”

Zhenya offers a small smile in return. “Okay. Russia play Canada. Russia win.”

“What?” Sid squawks. “No way! Canada will win, and it’ll be awesome.”

Poking his tongue out just a little, Zhenya shakes his head. “No, no. Russia win; Canada lose.” He shrugs his shoulders in a what-can-you-do sort of way, and Sid’s mouth falls open.

“No. Nope. You’re wrong, Zhenya. Wrong. Canada will win because Canada best.” And the imitation of Zhenya’s English sets him off again, laughter spilling out and filling the space between them, mending the small rift from Sid’s earlier words. Sid joins in, until they are clutching at one another’s shoulders, hunched over and trembling.

Zhenya loves the way Sid’s eyes crinkle up when he laughs, his mouth wide and grinning, joy suffusing every feature. He laughs with his whole body, as if the happiness and humor can’t be contained, like it fills him up completely, shaking out through his fingers and toes. It’s breathtaking, and Zhenya has a moment, brief but clear, where he thinks he wants to see Sid laugh for the rest of his life. The thought pulls him up short, laughter catching in his chest and forcing him to cough, uncontrollably.

Sid’s own laughter dies abruptly, and he looks at Zhenya in alarm, hand reaching out to thump at his back uselessly, until Zhenya regains control of himself.

“Sorry, sorry,” he grumbles, voice hoarse.

“Are you okay?” Sid asks, worry lining his features and hand now rubbing across Zhenya’s back, unconsciously.

“Good, good.” Zhenya gives him a thumbs-up and straightens up. “Time,” he says, when he sees the clock on the wall, steadily ticking down the final seconds to ten thirty.

Sid’s shoulders fall. “Right, curfew.” Jaw clenching, he looks at the floor. “Well, don’t lose that,” and he looks up just enough to point at the paper Zhenya has and no more. This can’t be the goodbye Zhenya leaves with.

“Sid,” he says softly, voice rough from the tears threatening to form in his eyes. God, this shouldn’t be so hard. A week ago, Sid was nothing more than a name, a faceless protégé thousands of kilometers away. Now, he feels like such a big part of Zhenya’s life, and he doesn’t understand why. They have less than a hundred words of shared vocabulary between them, yet Zhenya feels like Sid can understand him better than anyone else, better than his mother, which is really saying something.

Sid looks up, and his eyes are glassy. It breaks Zhenya’s heart just a little to be the cause of Sid’s sadness.

“No lose,” he says and motions towards the crumpled paper Sid holds.

“I won’t,” Sid promises. “I won’t.”

His words hang in the air between them, and Zhenya doesn’t know what else to say, doesn’t have the words necessary to express the emotions churning in his gut. He can’t stand the thought of flying away tomorrow, can’t breathe when he thinks of the continents and ocean that will separate them. He feels small in the tidal wave of emotions spilling through him, and he can’t say half the things he wants to say, and words don’t feel like enough anyways.

Recklessly, he reaches a hand out and cups Sid’s cheek, thumb brushing back and forth, raising a blush to the surface. Zhenya’s breath rattles in his chest as he watches Sid’s eyes, bright and wide as they dart across Zhenya’s features. He is beautiful, so achingly beautiful, and the blush darkens enough that Zhenya realizes he might have said that out loud. But Sid isn’t pulling away, so he repeats it in a soft whisper, meant just for him. “Beautiful.”

Sid swallows, and Zhenya can see it, can feel it from his hand’s resting place, and this moment feels so incredibly fragile like it’s spun from thin, clear glass that will shatter if they move or breathe wrong. It’s like they’re suspended in time, caught in the space between one breath and the next with Sid looking at him like this means something to him, too.

They are close enough that Zhenya can feel Sid’s breath against his lips, gentle and warm, and he licks his lips, suddenly nervous, his thumb twitching on Sid’s cheek.

A door opens and shuts in the hallway, and they leap apart.

Neither utters a word, as they strain to hear if the person is headed their way or not. When the elevator dings and they hear the doors hiss open and shut, they both let out relieved breaths.

The moment has passed, and Zhenya isn’t sure how to feel about that. He had let himself wonder what it would be like if he closed the distance between them and sealed his lips over Sid’s, but that would have been a monumental mistake. Sid could have run off to his Canadian friends and outed Zhenya, ruining his hockey future. He could have punched him because the kiss wasn’t welcome. He could have yelled at Zhenya and taken away his phone number and email, tearing it up because he didn’t want Zhenya to have it. Or worst of all, he could have kissed back, and then Zhenya would know what it was like, how it felt to hold Sid and kiss him, and then he would have to leave, saying goodbye to more than just a friend, leaving his heart in the hands of a boy he wouldn’t see for months or maybe years.

No, it was good that someone inadvertently interrupted them. It was for the best.

“I should probably get to sleep.” Sid finally breaks the silence, voice soft and uncertain. When Zhenya looks at him, he seems tense, worried, maybe even scared, and Zhenya can’t stand to leave Sid like this.

“Sid,” he says, and he doesn’t reach out until Sid meets his eyes. There is relief in them when he sees Zhenya’s extended hands, and he slides into Zhenya’s embrace, arms curling carefully around his waist. “Win tomorrow. Play good.”

Sid nods.

“I call, okay.”

Sid nods again.

“Sid,” he pulls back enough to get a finger under Sid’s chin and tilts his head up. “I call, okay?”

“Yeah, I know. I know.” His eyes flicker down to Zhenya’s lips and back up, and Zhenya’s heart stutters. “I’ll win tomorrow, and I’ll when next year, too, when Canada plays Russia for the gold.”

The joking tone breaks the heavy atmosphere, and Zhenya tucks him closer, chin resting on his head. “No, Russia win.”

Pulling back, Sid grins. “We’ll see. Thanks again,” he says, holding up the t-shirt and the paper.

Zhenya returns the sentiment, “Yes, thanks. Sleep good.”

“I will.”

Sid slowly backs away, eyes not leaving Zhenya’s until he is forced to turn and walk down the hallway, hands clutching his gifts tightly.

Zhenya feels a lump rise in his throat and swallows hard.

\----

The next morning comes too quickly, and Zhenya drags himself out of bed, only half conscious. Thankfully, he had packed his suitcase the night before, hiding the Canada shirt in one of his jackets and tucking Sid’s number into the extra book he brought but never got around to starting.

Sasha is crashing around their room, most likely still drunk, throwing his clothes and toiletries into his suitcase haphazardly, having returned just a few minutes ago. He looks awful and reeks of alcohol, and Zhenya is so grateful he declined the invitation to go out.

“Where’s my other shoe?” Sasha slurs at him, holding up one of his sandals and waving it at Zhenya, who laughs.

“On your foot already, you dumb fuck.” His tone is far fonder than it would have been when this tournament started, and it’s funny how much in Zhenya’s life has changed over these few weeks.

“Oh,” Sasha says, looking down at his single, bare foot. “Thank God I have you, Zhenya.”

“I don’t know what you’re going to do when you get back to Moscow and life without me,” he mocks.

Sasha frowns at the thought, lips jutting out in a pathetic pout. “I don’t know either. Also, also, I realized something last night Zhenya.” He pauses to smack his lips, mouth surely dry from all the alcohol. “I was dancing with this girl, this beautiful blonde—I still don’t understand why you don’t like blondes. Who doesn’t like blondes?—but anyways, we were dancing, and I was thinking about our flight.”

“You had a beautiful, blonde girl willing to dance with you, and you were thinking about our flight?” Zhenya interrupts.

“Shhh, Zhenya, I’m talking.” Sasha puts his index finger over Zhenya’s lips to quiet him. “I was thinking about our flight because she asked when I was going back to Russia, and I said today. Therefore, I was thinking about our flight.”

Shoving Sasha’s hand away, Zhenya rolls his eyes. “What about our flight?”

Sasha glares back. “I’m getting there. So I was thinking about our flight, and I realized that we can’t excha- exsha- exchange our presents in Moscow.”

“Yeah?”

“Because we can’t have knives on a plane, duh.” Sasha states like it should be obvious. “They’ll be in our checked baggage, and since you fly to Magnitogorsk after, you won’t have access to your bag. So we should exchange them now,” he concludes and looks so proud of himself.

“Wow, Sasha, I am impressed that your drunk brain was able to figure that out,” Zhenya teases him, grabbing his gift for Sasha from its place atop his suitcase. When he had been packing last night, he had realized the same thing and laid the knife out to remind himself to give it to Sasha in the morning. He wouldn’t tell him that though. “Here.”

“For me?” he asks, eyes lit up. “How sweet, Zhenya! Let me grab yours.”

They swap the knives, and each take a turn to exclaim over the excellent selection, Sasha rambling on about the gleaming blade and well-carved handle that fits perfectly in his grip, like it was made for him. He opens his mouth to continue, but Zhenya cuts him off, saying they need to head downstairs to make the bus if they want to get back to Russia today. Sasha grumps but follows along, mumbling about Zhenya being very cranky for someone who actually got sleep last night. Zhenya has become an expert at ignoring these comments.

The flight back to Moscow is uneventful, most of the guys sleeping off their hangovers or the natural exhaustion that follows a long tournament. When Zhenya leaves the team to catch his connecting flight with Yezhov and Pestunov, Sasha whines about how much he’s going to miss his new favorite roomie.

“Sasha, we play each other in a month. It’s not like you’ll never see me again.”

“Yes, but we’ll be enemies then.” He is always the most dramatic person in the room.

“We’ll be enemies on the ice, but he can still get dinner or something afterwards.”

“We can eat at your house, right?”

Zhenya’s arches a brow, “Sure.”

Sasha eyes light up, and Zhenya realizes he was probably angling for an invitation the whole time. Zhenya had mentioned how much he missed his mother’s cooking several times during the tournament, so it’s no surprise Sasha wanted to try it himself. “You’re the best, Zhenya! Now, go. We’ll see each other soon, so don’t cry.”

Zhenya scoffs and shakes his head, following his teammates over to the right gate to wait for their next flight, marveling over Sasha’s ridiculousness.

Thankfully, Yezhov and Pestunov aren’t nearly as chatty as Sasha, so they remain in silence through the layover and flight, only talking to share goodbyes, as they part ways at the airport. Zhenya can see his mother waiting for him on the other side of security and slides past a young family to throw his arms around her.

“Zhenechka,” she coos, wrapping him up tight and smelling like home. “It’s so good to have you back. We missed you.”

“I missed you, too, Mama,” he answers, burrowing further into her arms, though he outgrew her long ago.

After grabbing his bags, they make their way out to the car, and Zhenya tries not to nod off as she drives them home, the soft hum of her chatter washing over him and soothing the ache that started ever since he watched Sid walk away last night. He knows the gold medal game has probably already started, but he won’t know the final score until tomorrow, once articles start popping up on the internet.

The house smells warm, when they get back, and Zhenya practically salivates at the scent of pelmeni permeating the downstairs. God, he loves his mother so much.

He eats his weight in food, doing his best to answer his family’s questions about Finland and the tournament. His eyes feel heavy though, and he is always surprised by how exhausting travel is. He didn’t do much today besides sit in airports and airplanes, but he thinks if he went to bed now he could probably sleep through the night without a problem.

When Mama begins to shoo him upstairs, he makes a token protest, saying he has gifts he wants to give them, but she assures him they will be there tomorrow and that gifts can wait. Too tired to put up any more of a fight, he climbs the stairs and collapses on his bed, still fully dressed, and sleeps until the sun is peeking through his blinds.

He has the day off, going back to practice tomorrow before a game the following day, and he is grateful for it. He doesn’t think he has the energy to practice today. As he pulls himself up, he catches sight of his suitcase, probably brought upstairs by his dad or brother, and remembers that the gold medal game was yesterday.

He scrambles out of bed and thunders downstairs, skidding to a stop on the tile beside the computer. Throwing himself down, he pulls up a browser and pokes at the keyboard, anxiously waiting for the results to load. The first headline lets him know Canada lost, and it hurts more than he expected, as he thinks of Sid losing to the US, going home to Canada with a silver medal instead of the gold. Over the years, Zhenya has learned silver is the worst medal to receive. Bronze or gold mean you won your last game; silver means you fell short to the winner.

He thinks about the email address tucked between the pages of a book in his suitcase and considers sending Sid an email, but when he pulls up his inbox and goes to start a new message, he realizes he has no way of sending Sid a message in English. His keyboard is Cyrillic and therefore useless in communicating with Sid. He wonders if one of the local tech stores would have an English keyboard and resolves to stop by one after breakfast.

“Good morning, Zhenechka,” his mama greets, as he walks into the kitchen. “You slept for almost fourteen hours.”

Shrugging, Zhenya grabs one of the blinis from the plate beside the stove and shoves the whole thing in his mouth, unrepentant even as his mother glares.

“I was tired,” he says. “It was a long couple weeks.”

She hums in agreement and puts the plate in front of him. “Eat up. I made these special for you.”

“I always knew I was your favorite son,” he jokes, before digging into the plate, decimating the stack until only a few remain.

Full and happy, his thoughts turn back to Sid and Canada’s loss and his inability to sympathize with Sid because he doesn’t have the right keyboard. He throws on some clean clothes and snatches the car keys.

“Mama, I’m going out. Do you need me to pick anything up?” he hollers.

“No, dear, drive safe,” she reminds him, unfortunately aware of his lead foot.

“Always,” he grins, as she comes into the entryway, wryly shaking her head. “I’m the safest driver in the family.”

“I beg to differ,” she says and shoos him out of the house.

When he enters the electronics store, he realizes very quickly that he is out of his depth, and he wanders through the maze of aisles stacked with keyboards and mouse pads and software packages, searching for an employee who can help him out. It must not be unusual to want an English keyboard because as soon as Zhenya asks one the employee, Anton, directs him two aisles over and helps him pick the best one. He says Zhenya should be able to swap it out for his regular keyboard without any problem. He just needs to stick the disk in the drive, download the software, and plug this keyboard in in place of the Cyrillic one. It sounds simple enough.

On his way home, he also stops by a bookstore and grabs a Russian-English dictionary, certain that his own from school is far out of date.

He gets back to an empty house, his papa and brother at work and his mama out visiting the neighbors most likely. He unwraps the compact disk and sticks it in the drive, then pulls open the cardboard box and removes the keyboard from its Styrofoam encasement, happy to see a single cord emerging from it. Picking up the Cyrillic keyboard, he grabs its cord, following it down and around to the back of the computer, where he loses it in a tangle of wires that takes longer than he would like to figure out.

Finally, he is able to plug the new keyboard in. He agrees to finish the download, watches the bar load, and pulls up his email, heart beating anxiously. He selects the English keyboard option when he can and removes the slip of paper he had stuffed in his wallet earlier to see Sid’s email address, which he meticulously types in. He doesn’t know what to say after that, feels his English lacks the sympathy Sid needs after a tough loss.

He spends too long staring at the screen, typing and erasing and retyping, until he is left with a short message.

_Sid,_

_Sorry for lose. Very hard. ((((((_

_I miss you._

_Женя_


	4. Chapter 4

Long before his alarm is set to go off, Sid is pulled from sleep by the anxious thoughts running through his head and the sunlight spilling through his curtains. It’s draft day—not his own, not yet—but Zhenya’s. Zhenya who is somewhere in Raleigh right now, close enough that Sid has looked at flights a time or two over the past few months, scrolling through different airlines and connections, though he never seriously considered buying tickets. That would be difficult to explain to his parents, and the expense would be unreasonable after all the sacrifices they have made for him in his career. Also, his presence at the draft would be impossible to keep under wraps.

He doesn’t want to explain to a hundred nosy reporters that he had flown twenty-two hundred kilometers to visit one of the top prospects, with whom he talks weekly, if not daily. God, that would be an absolute mess. He can imagine the headlines already: ‘Canadian protégé visits Russian phenom at the draft’, ‘Sid the Kid comes to wish Malkin luck in person’, and on and on. There would be so many questions about how they knew each other, why they were close, where they met.

Sid doesn’t even like it when Marc sends him random IMs asking about his Russian lover, a title which never fails to make Sid blush horribly even though it isn’t true, and Marc takes his protests as encouragement, has done so ever since he caught them hugging at World Juniors.

He hadn’t responded when Sid had knocked on his door later that night, either asleep or out with teammates, but nothing could stop him from reassuring Sid that their friendship wouldn’t be shaken by Sid’s preferences.

“You know I don’t care, right?” he had said, watching Sid get ready to go out after morning practice.

“Don’t care about what?” Sid had asked back, distracted as he rifled through his suitcase in search of a reasonably clean shirt. The tournament was almost over, and he hadn’t done any laundry beyond giving his sweaty jerseys to one of the managers after every game.

“About your thing with the Russian boy.”

Pausing in his search, Sid had glanced over at Marc, who was spread out across his bed, faux casual. The others were waiting for them downstairs, and when Marc had volunteered to accompany Sid back to his room, he couldn’t understand why. Looking at Marc’s attempted nonchalance, he had realized Marc had ulterior motives in making the offer. They were rarely left alone, always surrounded by teammates in practice, at meals, during outings, so Marc couldn’t just bring it up whenever. At least he had waited until they were absolutely certain to be alone.

“Thanks,” Sid had cautiously answered, “but aren’t I allowed to be friends with people from other countries without needing your approval?”

“Friends?” Marc had repeated, eyebrows disappearing beneath his hair. “Sure, yes, but that was not a hug between friends.”

“Not a—what are you talking about, man?” Sid had stood up, spinning to stare at Marc.

“I don’t hug friends like that,” Marc had said, shaking his head. “You don’t hug friends like that. That was a hug you give a girlfriend or a, uh, boyfriend,”

“A boy—what the fuck, Marc? What are you trying to say?” Sid had felt out of his depth, confused by Marc’s statement. Zhenya was a friend, a good one, sure. He was patient with Sid’s limited Russian, had held Sid that one time he broke down in an embarrassing fit of tears. He was so easy to talk to, easy to be around, and that wasn’t Sid’s fault. He had just never really met someone he could trust so immediately, and there Marc was drawing conclusions from the two seconds he had seen of them hugging.

“Sid,” Marc had said, sitting up and holding his hands out like you would to a startled animal. “Sid, it’s okay. Seriously, no problem.”

“No problem? What’s no problem?”

“You liking boys.”

“I don’t like boys!” Sid had shouted, voice cracking over the words as he stared at Marc in horror. He didn’t like boys, had never had any interest in them—though he hadn’t had much interest in girls either, something his teammates at Shattuck and Rimouski always ribbed him for. Sure girls looked nice, and when he thought about it, guys did too, but that didn’t mean anything. Thinking someone looked nice and actually liking them were worlds apart.

“You don’t?” Marc had asked, disbelief heavy in his tone.

“No.”

“So you like girls?” The uncertainty was still there in his voice.

“Uh, no,” Sid had answered, stalling over the words because they didn’t make any sense. He had never looked at girls and thought about being with them, had never seen one and imagined kissing her or holding her, so he couldn’t say he liked girls. He hadn’t had those thoughts about boys either, though.

“No?” Marc had repeated, confusion evident.

Pausing, Sid had thought about Zhenya, about how easy he was to talk to and how Sid felt like he could confide in him about anything and know that Zhenya would keep his secrets, would accept him no matter what. “No,” Sid had said, more confidently. “I mean, girls are pretty, I guess, but there are some good-looking guys, too.”

“So you like both?”

Face scrunched up in thought, Sid had contemplated Marc’s words. “No. Well, yes, but no.”

“Yes but no?”

“It’s not really about the physical stuff,” Sid had started. “I mean, that’s nice. Well, I think it would be nice with another person.” His ears had burned red when he realized what he had admitted. Hockey had always taken up so much of his time, and sex just wasn’t a priority, especially when there was no one he trusted enough to share that with. He knew that wasn’t normal though, that most guys his age didn’t care what girl they shared a bed with as long as they were getting off. “Anyways, I just don’t really…” He had trailed off, unsure how to put all his thoughts into words. “I don’t know. I don’t just want a partner for sex, you know.”

“Most people don’t,” Marc had assured him.

“Yeah, I know. It’s just…” Sid wasn’t sure how they had arrived at this topic of conversation. “I know a lot of the guys are okay with hooking up at parties or in clubs, but that just sounds kind of awful to me. Picking some random stranger, taking them home for the night, and sharing something super personal with them. I can’t imagine that, with a girl or a guy.”

Silence had fallen when he finished speaking, and Marc had had a contemplative look on his face.

“What about it is so awful to you?” Marc had asked. “I don’t disagree. I enjoy having Véro, but lots of people hook up.”

“I don’t know the person,” Sid had answered. “I don’t feel like I could trust some hook up with that. I want it to be someone I know well, someone I can trust.”

“So you’re romantic,” Marc had stated. “You want the first time to be special.”

Shaking his head, Sid had answered, “It’s not about the first time. I’m not sitting around thinking about losing my virginity in a pile of rose petals or some shit. Even after the first time, I don’t think I’ll be into hooking up or sleeping with someone I don’t know super well.”

“So it’s about trust?” Marc had amended.

“Yeah, guy or girl doesn’t matter,” Sid had said, feeling more comfortable with the idea the more he talked, “but it needs to be someone I can depend on, someone I feel really comfortable with.”

“And you feel that for this Russian guy?”

Marc’s question had drawn Sid up short, freezing him in place as he thought about the answer. Before that day, before that conversation, he had never put more than a passing thought into what his future partner would be like. He had always imagined a woman, more because that was what he was exposed to in locker room talk and porn than because of any specific preference, and had always known it would be someone important to him, a serious girlfriend or a wife. That was it, though, because Sid never felt like he had met anyone he wanted that kind of relationship with.

But Marc’s question had seemed to turn everything on its head because the answer was yes, easily, so easily. Sid had felt like he could trust Zhenya with absolutely anything, and he already had. He had told Zhenya about his family and had cried in his arms uncontrollably, and Zhenya hadn’t complained. He had listened intently and held Sid closely, and it had made no sense because Sid hardly knew him, could hardly speak with him, but he knew he could trust him, felt like Zhenya valued their exchanges as much as he did and wasn’t sharing them with his teammates or coaches.

“Shit,” Sid had breathed out. “Shit, yeah. I do. I really do.” He had looked up at Marc as fear settled in his stomach at the realization. He—Sidney Crosby, future NHLer—liked another boy, another fucking hockey player. “Fuck, fuck, this is bad. This is so bad.”

“Whoa!” Marc had jumped off the bed and thrown an arm around Sid’s shoulders, pulling him close.

“Oh my God, Marc. I’m so stupid, so fucking stupid. What the hell am I doing? He’s a guy; I’m a guy. We both play hockey. We’re both going to play hockey in the NHL. NHL players don’t date each other. Fuck, he probably isn’t even into guys, which makes this so much worse because he just thinks of us as friends since he’s a straight Russian dude, and oh shit, Russia. Russia hates gays. I mean, technically, I’m not gay because women are nice, too, but I’m pretty sure I can be into guys. I am into guys. Well, a guy, but that would—”

“Sid,” Marc had said, shaking Sid’s shoulder. “Stop talking.”

Short of breath, Sid had looked up at him. “Stop talking? Man, I just realized I like guys and that I like a specific guy who is at this tournament with us and who has more than likely never had a gay thought in his life because he’s a fucking straight Russian guy.”

“Sid!” Marc had said, more insistent. “Stop. First, I saw how he hugged you and looked at you. He likes guys and likes you. Second, there is no way no one in the NHL is gay. There are hundreds of guys; someone has to be gay.”

“Sure,” Sid had answered with a shrug, trying to choke down the fear crawling up his throat and sending chills down his spine, “but they’re not open about it. They can’t be open about it. No one can.”

“No, and that sucks,” Marc had said, a fierce look in his eyes, “but you can still be happy with a man even if the world can’t know about it.”

Sid had grunted noncommittally and changed the subject. “Also, how the hell do you know he’s into guys or me?”

Rolling his eyes, Marc had ruffled Sid’s hair. “He looked at you the same way I look at Vero.”

A frantic banging at the door had interrupted their conversation, three teammates having grown annoyed with their slow progress out of the hotel.

They hadn’t spoken about it again, too busy getting ready for the final game and then nursing their wounds after the heartbreaking loss, but Sid had thought about their conversation. He had thought about it when Zhenya had given him a late Christmas gift and when he had cradled Sid’s cheek and called him beautiful, lips just a few inches away. He had thought about it late at night, when he wrapped a fist around himself and imagined that it was Zhenya’s hand instead, a revelatory and messy fantasy. He had thought about it when Zhenya sent that first email so many months ago, short but achingly sincere, beginning an almost-daily exchange. He had thought about it when Zhenya called him at the start of the summer, voice so real Sid felt like he could reach out and fall into his arms.

He still thinks about it, doesn’t go a day without thinking about it because his answers haven’t changed. He still wants someone he can trust completely, still feels like Zhenya is that person, maybe even feels that more than before, what with the emails that have gotten longer and more personal since Zhenya threw himself back into English-learning and Sid decided to pick up some Russian as well, telling his family it would be the most useful language to know in the NHL after English and French. He knows it’s risky, knows the NHL isn’t an accepting environment and that this is something they will have to keep secret, if it even lasts that long.

The many kilometers and long hours that separate them make it hard to maintain a friendship, and technically that is all they have. Sid knows it’s more than that for him and hopes it is more than that for Zhenya, but they’ve never talked about it in their emails. He still isn’t even positive Zhenya likes men; sure, he thinks Sid’s beautiful, hugs him like he’s precious, writes him about the funny movie he saw or the dinner his mom cooked. But that doesn’t mean he likes guys, and even if he did, there’s no guarantee he likes Sid.

If they’re both back at World Juniors in December, Sid plans to broach the subject with Zhenya. It just doesn’t feel like something to mention over email.

_Oh, hey, I had a great day today. Played some street hockey with friends and built a lego castle with Taylor. Also, I wanted to ask if you’re gay because I like you a whole hell of a lot and wanted to know if you liked me, too. If not, that’s fine; forget I ever said anything. But if maybe you do, I would really like to see you again and maybe kiss you because I’ve thought about it more than I should, and it actually seems pretty appealing. Anyway, good luck in your next game. Talk to you later! _

That would be a bad idea, the very worst.

“Sidney! Breakfast!” Trina calls from downstairs, and he startles at her words. He had woken up long before his alarm clock, but if breakfast is ready that means he’s been lounging around lost in thought for too long.

“Coming!” he answers, tumbling out of bed to get dressed. Throwing open a drawer, he hesitates over the shirts, itching to grab the Team Russia shirt Zhenya had given him, so he can wear it during the draft. His parents have never seen it; no one has. If they did, Sid would have to explain, and he doesn’t want to. This thing with Zhenya is his and his alone. Someday, maybe, he’ll share it with his family, but for now he wants to keep it between them, at least until Sid knows what they mean to each other.

Resigning himself to being a little too warm, Sid slides the shirt on and pulls a thin hoodie over it to hide the double-headed eagle and the Cyrillic letters. He feels better with it on, more settled as he prepares to see where Zhenya will begin his NHL career.

When he makes it downstairs, Trina already has a plate of pancakes steaming on the table, and Taylor has helped herself to the largest one, though she’ll push the final pieces onto Sid’s plate when she decides she can’t eat anymore. He never complains, too happy to see her smiling mischievously as he pretends not to notice her antics. She had given him the cold shoulder his first two days home, once the season ended, and it had cut Sid to the core, so he never takes her smiles for granted anymore.

“Sid!” she yells, when he sits down beside her. “It’s draft day!”

Hockey has always been a big part of their family, but as Sid gets closer to his own draft, it seems to take up more and more space, the whole family tuning into hockey news because soon it will be Sid’s name called out.

“Yes, it is!” Sid responds, matching her enthusiasm and digging into the pan of eggs Trina sets down in front of them. “Are you ready?”

“Yup! Did Mom tell you we’re getting pizza for it?” Taylor asks, eyes lit up.

“No way, that’s awesome!”

“Yeah,” she agrees before changing the subject, “will you shoot with me after breakfast?”

Ruffling her hair, Sid smiles. “Of course.”

They spend most of the morning in the basement, switching between shooter and goalie, Taylor insisting Sid doesn’t have to go easy on her, and she barely even cries when she gets a puck to the ankle, determined to prove she is brave enough and strong enough to handle playing against Sid. He still gets her an ice pack when they make their way back upstairs for lunch, Trina raising an eyebrow and shaking her head, too used to the bumps and bruises of hockey to be worried.

Though he enjoys the time with Taylor, throwing a baseball around in the backyard and playing board games in front of the TV, the day seems to crawl by, inching closer and closer to seven thirty. Sid catches himself sneaking looks at the clock and frowning when only a few minutes have passed since he last checked.

When Troy gets back from work, Taylor shouts about picking up a pizza or two because Mom promised, and they spend a good ten minutes debating which toppings are the best. It’s a good distraction.

“Next year, we’ll be there!” Taylor exclaims, as they turn the draft on and see the arena decked out in banners and filled to capacity with potential draftees, fans, and various staff from the different teams.

The talking heads are commenting on the décor, the warm and welcoming environment of Raleigh, and how the players look younger every year. Sid has heard it all before, tuning out as they go on and on about the great Carolina fans and the Canadian prospects, scanning the screen as the camera pans over the crowd, hoping to catch a glimpse of Zhenya.

They haven’t spoken in days, Zhenya too busy with the pre-draft activities, and Sid misses the contact, misses waking up to one of Zhenya’s emails, an endearing combination of grammatically-incorrect English and random Russian phrases he claims cannot be translated. Sid doesn’t begrudge him the radio silence; he knows Zhenya probably doesn’t have access to a computer, but he almost wishes the draft were over, so Zhenya could be his again instead of the NHL’s.

“Those Russians will probably go one-two,” Troy says, watching the screen intently as the commentators discuss the likelihood of Washington selecting Ovechkin. “Everyone’s saying Ovechkin’s the undisputed number one, but Malkin’s right behind him. He’s just younger—17 I think—so he’s still got some growing to do.”

Sid nods, unfocused, eyes tracking the representative Washington has sent up to the podium. He’s expecting to hear Ovechkin’s name, has already talked with Zhenya about the likelihood of him going number two, a sore spot for him, though Sid thinks Pittsburgh is way better than Washington. Zhenya could play with Mario Lemieux, _the_ Mario Lemieux. That’s way better than going number one in Sid’s opinion. Zhenya doesn’t fully agree, but Sid’s working on convincing him.

He hears the representative call Ovechkin’s name, watches him hug his family and climb the stairs to get his jersey and hat, and thinks he looks a little goofy: hair gelled with an awful part down the middle, mouth sporting a bit of an under bite, and shirt tails almost falling out in the back. With Russia’s unfortunately early exit in Juniors, he hadn’t met Alexander Ovechkin, but Zhenya mentions him in his emails from time to time, complaining about Sasha sending him messages saying he would be number one and win the Calder their first year. Sid still hasn’t figured out how you get Sasha from Alexander, but he gave up trying to figure out the Russian naming system ages ago.

“There goes Ovechkin. Now, it’s Malkin’s turn,” Troy narrates, as the camera cuts away from Ovechkin’s smiling face to a list of the Penguins first round picks over the last few years. When the announcers mention Flower, Sid’s stomach flips. While it sounds awful, Sid had genuinely forgotten that Flower is on the Penguins’ roster. He had been sent back down to Cape Breton shortly after returning from World Juniors, though Sid firmly believes that was the defense’s fault and not Marc’s. He had played a few games with the Penguin’s AHL team and would most likely continue in the fall, so he could be called back up more easily.

Sid swallows at the thought of Marc in a locker room with Zhenya while Sid is thousands of kilometers away, unable to stop him from doing anything dumb like cornering Zhenya to interrogate him about his intentions towards Sid or some other shit like that. God, he can imagine Marc doing it, clumsily threatening him with the heavily-accented English Zhenya has no hope of understanding.

The camera cuts back to the arena, and Sid goes still.

It may all be in his head, but he feels like he could hear a pen drop in the silence around him. Taylor has stopped her obnoxious chewing, and he isn’t sure if his dad is still breathing from his spot two seats away. It’s like everyone is following Sid’s lead, angling forward just a little, so they don’t miss anything.

When the announcer reveals Pittsburgh’s choice, he butchers Zhenya’s hometown, tripping over the letters and coming out with a nonsensical pronunciation, but it doesn’t even matter because Sid can see Zhenya. He can see him hugging his parents and brother, smile lighting up his face and stealing Sid’s breath away.

He hasn’t seen Zhenya in months, has only had his written words and the one, precious phone call, but God he looks good, better than Sid remembers, all shaggy hair and tanned skin and stupidly full lips. It’s an arresting sight, and Sid can feel his cheeks heat and his blood run south as Zhenya walks toward the stage, long legs eating up the space.

Sinking lower into his seat, Sid shifts around, trying to find a better spot, so the semi he’s developed won’t be too obvious. He should probably feel embarrassed about how quickly he reacted to the mere sight of Zhenya, but he doesn’t care. It’s too good to see him, to watch him nod and smile, surely not understanding much of the English thrown his way but shaking everyone’s hand and posing for the pictures with ease.

He looks good in the pale gold and black, comfortable in an NHL jersey, and Sid spares a moment to imagine what it would be like to play in the NHL with Zhenya, to wake up each day knowing he would see him, to run the power play with him and connect for beautiful overtime goals. He knows it’s ridiculous, usually shuts down the thoughts about his own draft and future team before he thinks about them too much, but he indulges himself for a moment, pretends it’s possible that Pittsburgh could get the number one pick next year. Unlikely, he knows; they had it last year, and they got the second pick this year, but miracles happen. And Sid may not be a gloater, but he knows he’s going first, has known for years, so playing with Zhenya is a pipe dream.

Before Zhenya has even left the stage, the screen changes to the Blackhawks information, the announcer discussing what the Hawks need to get out of their decades-long slump, and Sid can’t believe it’s over. A minute and a half, maybe two, and Zhenya is gone, pulled away to do a million interviews and to meet with the management from Pittsburgh while Sid is left with an awkward boner and a deep ache in his chest.

The rest of the draft passes quickly, uneventful, and Sid feels hollowed out, gutted like he never is when it comes to anything hockey-related. It’s ridiculous, irrational. He knows that, but it doesn’t make a difference. He still wants to rewatch those precious few moments where Zhenya was on screen, or better yet, he wants to jump on a plane for Raleigh and see him in person, real and warm. He misses his exuberant hugs and the mischievous smile he pulls out when he’s making a joke. He misses the sleepy eyes and soft smile that have haunted him since they said goodbye. He wants to curl up next to him and practice his awful Russian, giggling at the horrified faces that he will surely make as Sid trips over the syllables.

“Sid,” Trina calls, standing in the doorway to the kitchen. She looks confused and worried, and Sid wonders how many times she said his name before he answered, too caught up in his thoughts.

“Yeah?”

“There’s someone on the phone for you.” She’s clutching the old phone in her hand, wrapping the cord around her fingers, a nervous tick that has alarm bells going off in Sid’s head. Who would call their house this late asking for him?

“What?”

“There’s a man on the phone. He said he’s your friend. He’s got a really strong accent.”

Sid bolts up so fast Taylor jumps in surprise, and he breathes a quick apology before hurrying to his mom’s side, reaching for the phone, his heart in his throat. She reluctantly lets it go, a strange look on her face. Sid knows he’ll have to explain, but that’s a problem for later.

“Hello?” he says, pulling the phone close, cradling it in his hands.

“Sid.” Zhenya sounds heartbreakingly fond, and Sid’s eyes flutter shut.

“Hi, hey, how are you?”

“Good, so good. Happy play in Pittsburgh.”

“You’re going to do great. I know it. God, Pittsburgh, man. You’re going to play with Mario Lemieux.”

Zhenya laughs, soft and low, and Sid wants to see him so badly, wants to feel his chest shake with it, wants to watch his face light up. “Talk to Mario.”

“You did? Of course, you did. He’s the team’s owner and the captain. That’s amazing. God, I’m so jealous of you.”

“Talk about season.”

“Yeah?”

“Play in Magnitogorsk.”

It pulls Sid up short and steals his breath. “What?”

“I not…not good yet.”

Zhenya had seemed excited for the draft, prepared to make the jump from the Superleague to the NHL. He had never mentioned any doubts in his emails, and Sid goes cold, wondering if Zhenya hadn’t wanted to tell him, hadn’t trusted him. “Zhenya, no. You’re amazing. They picked you second for a reason. You’re so good, and you would do great in Pittsburgh. I thought you wanted to play this season. I...you said you wanted to play.”

“I know. Sid, I know,” and he sounds forlorn. “I…I here for draft. My family here. Is good. I like.” He pauses, weighing his words. “Season, family not here. Is hard.”

Sid thinks about the distance between Rimouski and Cole Harbour, the many kilometers that stretch between his home and his team, and he understands. Even after his draft, he’ll still be on the same continent, maybe even in the same country. Zhenya won’t have that. He’ll be on the other side of the world, far from his family and his home, far from his language and culture.

“I get it,” he says, even though it hurts to think of Zhenya staying in Russia. “I understand.”

“Hard choose, Sid. I… a lot think. I want play NHL, but not yet.”

“When do you think you’ll be ready? Next year?” he asks tentatively. “We could start together, if you did. We’d get to see each other at least once or twice a season, more if we’re in the same division and live close.”

Zhenya sighs, heavy. “I know. Sid, Sid, miss you. Miss you a lot.”

“If you came over this year, we could see each other when you play in Montreal. That’s only a six-hour train ride. It’s not far, a lot closer than Magnitogorsk.”

Zhenya makes a hurt sound. “Sid. Sid, I know. I want,” he breathes out, shaky. “Is hard. Miss you, miss you,” and he lets out a stream of Russian, fast and low and intimate over the line, and Sid wishes he understood, wishes they had the necessary words to communicate. “Is hard, Sid.” His voice is thick with emotion, accent rough around the words.

“I know. Zhenya, I know,” and Sid already regrets suggesting it, regrets making it him versus Zhenya’s family. “I’m sorry. I don’t—I don’t want you to choose between me and your family. I shouldn’t be asking that. That’s not—It’s not…I’m sorry. Please forget I even said anything.”

“No sorry, Sid,” he jokes, a weak attempt to lighten the mood, and Sid feels awful. This is Zhenya’s big day; he was drafted second overall in the NHL to an amazing team, and Sid is being a selfish asshole, asking him to leave his family behind so he can come play in North America and see Sid once a season.

“But I am sorry,” he insists. “I shouldn’t say that. Your family is important, so important, and I shouldn’t make you feel bad for choosing to stay with them another year. I was being a dick, and I’m sorry.”

“Is okay, Sid. I...I think, too. I want, but miss family.”

“I get it, Zhenya. I understand.”

“No, Sid,” he interrupts. “Not understand. Think all time. Think play hockey in America or Canada, good. You there, good. Think a lot, want.”

Dear God, if Sid didn’t know that Zhenya barely had any English to his name, he would take that the wrong way, would hear it as a come-on, a desire voiced at long last, but he knows Zhenya doesn’t have the most developed vocabulary, is scraping by with what he learned in grade school and over the last few months that they have written.

“Sid,” Zhenya murmurs over the line. “Hard not play NHL but okay. Miss you a lot but soon I there and you there.”

He says it like a promise, an oath he intends to keep, and Sid doesn’t know what to say, feels like a small ship caught in a storm, tossed to and fro on the wave of his emotions. “Zhenya,” he starts, then stops, not knowing what to say, how to respond without giving himself away completely. He trusts Zhenya, but he doesn’t want to ruin the friendship they have built just because he wants more.

“Sid.”

“Zhenya, I miss you, too. I…I want to be happy for you. I do. It’s a good choice staying in Russia for another year, building up your strength and spending time with your family. You’re lucky to get so much time with them.”

Zhenya hums. “Still miss you.”

“Magnitogorsk will let you play in World Juniors again, won’t they? We can see each other then.”

“Yes, see you, and I win. Russia win.”

Affronted, Sid scoffs. “Absolutely not. Canada is going to take home the gold, snatch it away from you and the fucking USA.” Five months later, and the loss still stings.

“No, Sid. Russia win. Russia best.”

“In your dreams, I’ll win every face-off against you, make every shot, and take home the gold.”

Zhenya tuts and responds, smile clear in his voice. “No, Sid. Canada okay, but Russia best.”

“Whatever.”

There’s a commotion on Zhenya’s side, a garbled voice speaking to him, and Sid listens to him respond, smooth and comfortable in his mother tongue, all the awkward fumbling gone.

“Sid, need go.”

“Yeah, of course. That’s fine. It’s your draft day; you need to celebrate. Have fun, eh?”

“Want you here,” Zhenya whispers, and Sid swallows around the lump in his throat.

“I want to be there.”

“Yes, email later, okay?”

“Yeah, of course, but go celebrate. I can wait.”

“Bye, Sid.”

“Bye, Zhenya,” and he doesn’t hang up until Zhenya is long gone and there’s nothing but the sound of the dial tone in his ear, telling him that if he’d like to make a call, please hang up and try again. A cough from the doorway startles him, and he jumps, almost dropping the phone to the floor, before spinning around to see his parents watching him.

“Milk and cookies, anyone?” Trina asks.

Sid wants to say no, wants to go upstairs and curl up in bed until the ache in his chest gives way to the blissful silence of sleep, but his parents are looking at him, wary and unsure, and he doesn’t know what to do about that.

With Taylor already put to bed, they settle around the old kitchen table, cookies on a plate and mugs of cold milk in front of them. It’s quiet but not peaceful; Sid can feel a tension in the air, can see it in the looks his mom and dad exchange, eyes locked in a wordless communication he doesn’t understand.

Finally, Trina sighs. “Sid,” she starts. “Sid, I…I didn’t know you had any Russian friends.”

“Just the one,” he answers with a shrug, and Troy shifts in his seat, restless.

“How did you meet him?”

“World Juniors.” He’s not being mean, but he doesn’t want to share Zhenya with anyone else. He wants to keep him for himself, something unknown and untouched by everything else in his life.

“Is he…” Troy pauses, opens his mouth, and closes it again, searching for the right words. “I didn’t mean to listen in, but your mom seemed worried when she said the phone was for you, and I just wanted to make sure everything was okay.”

“Everything’s good.”

“Right,” Troy trails off. “It’s just that I could hear you, and I’m not positive, but it sounded an awful lot like you were talking to that Malkin kid, and we…we wanted to ask…”

Sid’s eyes flicker back and forth between them, and he doesn’t know what to say. Troy didn’t actually get a question out.

“Okay, we’re doing this wrong,” Trina says, and she pushes her mug away, turning to face Sid fully. “Sweetheart, you know we love you, right?”

“Yes?” and it’s more of a question than an answer, but he doesn’t know where this is going. His mom looks so sincere, and his dad looks a bit uncomfortable but determined, and Sid feels so out of his depth.

“There’s nothing you could ever do that would make us stop loving you. You understand that, right?” She waits for him to nod, before moving on. “Well, it’s just that we could hear you talking to that boy, and it seemed like you know him really well, and you’re very close. I just, we just wanted to ask why you never told us about him? He obviously means a lot to you, and you clearly mean a lot to him.”

This conversation is spiraling out of control, drifting towards things Sid is still figuring out himself. “What do you mean? I didn’t—There’s nothing—” he stops because he doesn’t know what to say, doesn’t know what his parents want from him.

“Sid,” his dad chips in, voice gruff. “Just be honest with us here. I’m almost certain that you were just on the phone with the second overall draft pick, and there’s only a handful of reasons he would be calling you after that, one which seems far more likely than the others from the way you were talking to him.”

“What?” Sid croaks.

Trina reaches out, clasping her hands around his own limp ones and squeezing. “Honey, are you…are you seeing that boy?”

“I don’t—” he stutters, fighting the urge to make a break for his room. “What does that even mean?”

“Are you dating Malkin?” Troy asks bluntly, gaze pinning Sid in place.

“No! I—no!” His mind is racing, heart thumping in his chest because it’s the truth but not. It’s the reality that ignores Sid’s own desires and the thoughts that have him probing a finger around his hole late at night because he did his research and understands the mechanics of sex between two men. “I’m not dating him. There’s nothing going on. I…I—no.”

Trina’s brow furrows. “Nothing going on? Honey, he called you on his draft day. When he could be out celebrating with his friends and family, he chose to call you, and I know we shouldn’t have listened, that it’s your business, but it sounded like he was considering coming to Pittsburgh this year just because he wants to see you. That’s not nothing, Sid.”

Laid bare like that, it would appear that Sid and Zhenya are more than they really are. “We’re friends, really good friends. That’s all, I promise.”

His words echo in the silence that follows, and when he dares to raise his head, Trina looks devastated, shattered.

“Oh honey,” she exclaims and hurries out of her chair, kneeling beside him on the cold linoleum. “No, no, no. That’s not—You don’t need to say that. We’re not—that’s not what this is.” She’s clutching at his hands, and Sid doesn’t understand.

“Son, we don’t need you to promise that,” Troy tells him, and he looks so sad. “We don’t want you to promise that.” He heaves a sigh and pulls his chair closer, waving for Trina to do the same. “Be honest with us, Sid. Do you like him? As more than a friend.”

Sid’s mouth goes dry, and his hands get sweaty, shaky where Trina holds them. He can’t do this. He can’t stay here. God, this was hard enough with Marc, and it didn’t matter anywhere near as much then. These are his parents, the ones that have made every sacrifice imaginable to get him where he is today, and he could be throwing that all away by falling for another man, another hockey player. It’s selfish and ungrateful, but when Troy wraps an arm around his shoulders and tugs him closer, he can’t help but whisper, “Yes.”

There’s a long moment where nothing happens , no one moves. The world is frozen at Sid’s admission. Then suddenly, Troy is wrapping both arms around him and pulling him tight against his chest, while Trina sandwiches him from the other side, and the tears start to fall.

There’s relief at finally admitting it out loud, putting in words what he has felt growing ever since Zhenya took his second stick and told him to pass, but there’s fear, too, and so much of it. They all know how dangerous it is for him to feel this way, especially about someone he will be playing with in the NHL. If anyone ever got wind of this and decided to tell the press, his career would end before it begins.

In the protective cocoon of Troy and Trina, Sid lets himself fall apart, lets the emotion and the stress of the entire situation wash over him and out into the air. He’s scared of being found out, scared of Zhenya not reciprocating his feelings, scared of losing his closest friend.

“I don’t…I can’t,” he gets out between sobs, and Trina shushes him gently, carding her fingers through his hair to soothe him.

“Just let it out, Sid,” Troy tells him, and they remain there until Sid’s eyes run dry and his breath evens out.

Trina grabs a box of tissues and grabs one before handing the rest to him, wiping at her eyes.

“Sorry,” Sid says, bunching up his tissue to scrub at the snot dripping from his nose.

“Don’t apologize,” she says and pats at his knee.

“No, it’s just that you’ve both done so much to get me here today, sacrificed time and money to let me live my dream, and I feel like I’m throwing it away if I have feelings for Zhenya.”

“Sidney Patrick Crosby,” Trina tsks. “Do not ever, not ever, ever, ever apologize for caring about someone. Love is a beautiful thing, no matter what form it comes in.”

Love feels a little strong, a little too much, but Sid doesn’t correct her.

“This won’t be easy, Sid,” Troy tells him, laying a hand on his back. “I…I don’t want to be a bad father, but I wish you didn’t have to go through this. You’ve already gone through so much, been spit on and yelled at and hurt for being good.” He sucks in a deep breath. “I’m not going to lie. This is a lot more than just being good at hockey. This is something that could stop you from ever getting into the NHL.”

“Troy,” Trina chides.

“I know, I know, but this is something I need to say,” he insists, and he stares at Sid, catches his gaze and holds it. “I’ve hated watching you be treated like shit by other players and their parents. I’ve hated seeing you pushed and shoved around just because you’re better than everyone else. I,” he pauses, choked up, “I don’t want to even think about how bad it would be if anyone found out about this. No parent wants to see their child hurt.”

“Troy.”

He holds a hand up. “But dammit, Sid, I want you to be happy. Hockey is important; it’s your future. But there’s more to life than a puck and a stick, and I don’t want you to ever feel like you can’t have more than that.”

“Yes,” Trina agrees. “Sid, we are here for you, and we want you to know that this doesn’t change anything. We love you so much, every part of you.”

This is not at all how he expected to end his day, and he’s speechless, mouth moving wordlessly as he collects his thoughts. “Thanks, I—Thank you,” he gets out, stumbling over the words. “I, well I…that’s good. That’s good. I’m not sure he likes me back though, so…”

Trina laughs outright at his words, eyes crinkling up and head thrown back. “Oh, Sid. Honey, you can’t actually believe that.”

Sid shrugs helplessly.

“He was just picked second in the NHL draft. If he’s as good as they say he is, he’ll probably be a superstar, captain of the Penguins when Lemieux finally decides to retire for good. And he decided to call you, to tell you what his plans are for the future. He so clearly cares about you, cares about your opinion and your feelings. Even if he doesn’t feel the same way, he’s a good friend, and you’re lucky to have him.”

Troy nods along and claps Sid on the back when Trina finishes. “This won’t be easy kid, but I’ll be damned if I let anyone hurt you over this.” There’s a vicious light in his eyes, and Sid is overwhelmed by it all.

“Yes,” Trina adds.

Sid looks back and forth between them, sees them looking at him with a fierce love, and he swallows hard. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see the oven clock change to midnight, and he jumps in shock. “God, it’s late. Sorry for keeping you up.”

“Don’t apologize, sweetheart. We’ll always stay up for you. You’re our son, even if you are growing up so quickly.”

“We love you, kiddo,” Troy chimes in and pulls Sid into a tight hug. “No matter what. We’re here for you.”

“Thanks, thank you. Seriously.”

“Anytime.”

“And don’t thank us yet,” Trina adds, a glint in her eye. “We’re all tired and need some sleep, but don’t think for one second that you’re going to escape telling me how you met this Russian boy and why you like him.”

Sid blushes a vibrant red and ducks his head. “Well, thanks again. I’m kind of tired, so I think I’ll just, just go to bed and see you tomorrow. Good night.” He leaves with a quick wave, hurrying up the stairs. He’s exhausted, wrung out from the fear and the tears, but he feels better, lighter than he has since he realized how he felt about Zhenya.

\----

Over the next few months, Trina keeps her promise and teases details out of Sid, casually asking questions over breakfast or during a movie night. When she finds out about the gift exchange their last night, she nods, “I had wondered where that Russia shirt came from. I was going to ask but completely forgot.”

Sid had been mortified, had believed that he had hidden it well, always doing his own laundry after he had worn the shirt.

“Honey, you’ve gotten a lot better at washing your own clothes, but you’re not that good,” she had responded when he asked, and Sid had blushed.

She starts asking Sid to say hello to Zhenya for her, to tell him he was smart to commit to another year in Russia as the lockout drags on, to let him know that she tried making borscht and failed. Even when Sid heads back to Rimouski for the season, she keeps it up, prodding him for updates on Zhenya’s season and his mother’s health, even though Sid doesn’t remember telling her Natalia had been sick.

And Zhenya goes with it. He’s ecstatic the first time Sid passes on the hello, and he demands that he say hello back to Trina and Troy and small, little Taylor who ‘look so cute in baby goalkeeper’ after Sid sends him a photo of her decked out in her gear.

It becomes habit to tell Zhenya about Taylor’s progress and his mom’s unexplained attempts to cook Russian food and to laugh at the stories that Zhenya sends back about Denis’ failed efforts to get the girl down the street to like him. It’s comfortable and easy, and sometimes, Sid will let himself think about the future, about Zhenya coming to the NHL and playing against him, about Zhenya looking at him like he did that last night, all raw and open. It makes Sid ache, makes him press a hand to his chest to push the pain away or trail his fingers beneath the covers to soothe the burning need that flares up every time he thinks of Zhenya.

He wonders if he should feel bad for imagining his friend when he’s working two fingers into himself, slow and careful, listening for the creak of footsteps in the hall or the soft click of a door opening, but he can’t help it. In his mind, he can see Zhenya reaching out to cup his cheek, eyes warm, lips moving as he tells Sid how beautiful he is. That’s not something he’s ever wanted to be called, not something he’s ever thought about enjoying, but when he pictures Zhenya braced over him, forearms straining as he holds himself up and whispers about how beautiful Sid is, a thrill will skip down his spine and arch his back until he’s coming in his fist, twitching around the fingers he’s got buried inside himself.

He tries to push those thoughts away when Zhenya writes about how he plans to come to Pittsburgh next year so they can play against each other. That night, that moment was so long ago, Sid might not even remember it correctly. He might have idealized it, interpreted Zhenya’s words and actions as more than they really were. He wants to doubt that though, wants to believe Zhenya cares about him as more than just the awkward Canadian boy he met at Juniors, and that doesn’t seem impossible at times.

_Sid!_

_Last email before see in America. So good!_

_I leave in morning, very happy._

_We play. Russia win._

_Женя_

The email is brief, nothing more than a few hurried lines, but Sid grins at the words and the excitement he can hear in them. Zhenya had sent it yesterday, but with the exhibition games and teammates always hovering around, Sid hadn’t been able to check his emails. Zhenya could already have landed. Hell, it’s late enough he could already be in North Dakota.

“Sid!” he hears from across the hotel lobby and looks up to see Brent and Patrice making their way towards him, weaving through the crowd of players and fans milling about. Exiting the browser, he steps away from the computer to greet them.

“What’s up, man?” Brent asks, when they’re close enough.

“Just checking my emails. My dad’s flying in for the first game, and I couldn’t remember when he would be getting in.”

“Your mom and sister coming to?”

“Yeah, just a few days later.”

“Cool, you wanna go grab something to eat? Dion said he just saw the Russia bus pull up outside, so it’s about to get real crowded.”

Sid’s heart stutters in his chest, thumping against his ribs in a staccato rhythm. “Oh, yeah, that’s good. I mean, food is good. Yeah.”

Patrice raises an eyebrow. _“You okay, Sid?”_

_“Yeah, I’m good. I’m good,” _he answers absentmindedly, trying not to be too obvious as he watches the hotel entrance for any sign of the vivid Russian red. “Food sounds good. Where are we going?”

Patrice is still looking at him strangely, brow furrowed, but he doesn’t say anything else.

“That diner we went to the other night was really good,” Brent suggests. “We could get salads on the side instead of fries. Keep it a little healthy.”

Sid can hear a commotion outside, loud boisterous voices talking over each other in a language he’s missed, and he stares as the Russian team spills into the lobby, eyes scanning the group for a familiar face.

“What do you think, Sid?” Patrice asks him, pulling him away from his search, and he looks between them.

“The diner?” he repeats, hoping they’re still on that topic. “Yeah, that’s fine with me. Salad is probably a good idea.” He can see Zhenya now, and his chest feels tight. He’s walking with Alexander Ovechkin, heads bent together as they talk, and Sid feels his breath catch at the sight. “Yeah, that’s, yeah. I’m gonna run to the bathroom real quick, okay?”

They both give him strange looks, but he shrugs back at them sheepishly, and they let it go. Slowly, he picks his way through the crowded lobby, praying for Zhenya to look up.

_“Sorry,” _someone says when they step back into his path. “_Excuse me.”_

_“No problem,” _Sid answers automatically. The guy gives him a weird look, all heavy brows and squinty eyes, and Sid flushes when he realizes his mistake. “I was just going…” he tapers off with a vague wave of his hand toward the small alcove with the restroom, and the mumbled English must do the trick because the guy’s face goes blank with incomprehension, and he shifts out of the way.

Still red-cheeked, Sid looks up and sees Zhenya watching him intently, dark-eyed and focused, and his mouth goes dry. Ovechkin is still chattering away beside him, not having noticed his diverted attention, so Sid tips his head slightly towards the bathroom, hoping Zhenya understands, before continuing his path.

He doesn’t look at him again, stepping over suitcases and hockey bags until he can slip into the quiet alcove. It’s out of sight, set off to the side, and Sid can hear Zhenya step up behind him, can feel the heat at his back from his proximity.

After a moment’s thought, he pushes open the bathroom door and enters, turning to watch Zhenya watch him. There’s a tension in the air, thick and heady, and Sid wonders if it’s all in his head, if he’s imagining the way Zhenya’s looking at him.

A beat passes, then another, and Sid worries that he’s read this wrong, that Zhenya doesn’t want to talk to him, doesn’t want to follow Sid. His blood runs cold, and he feels himself break out in a nervous sweat, palms growing damp and slippery. Zhenya swings his head to the side, then darts forward, pulling the door shut behind him and locking it.

The voices from the lobby are muffled, and Sid can almost pretend that it’s just the two of them.

“Hi Sid,” Zhenya finally says, voice gentle, and Sid pitches himself forward into his arms.

“Zhenya,” he sighs out, arms sliding around his waist and head finding its place in the crook of his neck, and something in him settles at the feel of Zhenya solid and real in his arms.

“Sid, Sid, so good see. So good. Miss you. Miss a lot, miss always.” He breaks off into a string of Russian and pushes his face into Sid’s curls, mumbling incoherently as he hugs Sid back, fiercely tight.

“Zhenya, oh my God, you’re here. You’re finally here. I’ve missed you, too. So much. Your emails are great, really good, but sometimes I read them and wish that you were there to tell me all those stories instead. I wish that I could hear your voice and see you in front of me, but I know that’s selfish, and I shouldn’t make it all about me, but God. I’ve missed you so much.”

Zhenya doesn’t understand more than a handful of English words on a good day, and with Sid’s face squished against his collarbone, the words are even more indistinct, but he still nods, still makes soft noises of assent, and Sid has missed this so much.

“I can’t believe you’re really here,” he murmurs into the skin of Zhenya’s neck. “I’ve been thinking about this for so long. I feel like it’s a dream that I’m going to wake up from soon.”

“Here,” Zhenya tells him. “I here. You here.” He squeezes Sid before pulling back just enough to get a look at his face. “You here,” he repeats and sounds just as amazed as Sid feels.

Sid laughs. “I’m here, and you’re here. God, it’s been so long.”

“So happy, Sid.” Zhenya is looking down at him, eyes warm and smile soft, and Sid briefly imagines hooking his arms around Zhenya’s neck and pulling him down for kiss. He can almost feel the slightly chapped lips and the lightly stubbled chin against him, and he shivers.

“I’m really happy, too. It took forever for you to get here.”

“Normal. You early.”

“Well, if you had gotten here early, too, we could have had more time together.” It slips out unconsciously, and Sid snaps his mouth shut, embarrassed.

Zhenya makes a hurt sound and pulls Sid back against him. “I know. I know. Sorry.”

The words shouldn’t make Sid feel better, shouldn’t make him hide a grin against Zhenya’s neck. He’s being selfish again, acting like Zhenya’s time should go to him exclusively, instead of his team or his family, but Sid only gets a couple weeks with him before he has to see him leave again. He wants to stay in the circle of Zhenya’s arms until they’re forced to part. He wants to listen to the steady beat of his heart and feel the gentle rise and fall of his chest, so he won’t forget this is real, that Zhenya is here with him. But he knows he can’t. Brent and Patrice are waiting for him, and Zhenya’s team is probably wondering where he went.

Reluctantly, Sid extracts himself from the hug and takes a full step back. “I have dinner with some teammates,” he tells Zhenya. “They’re out there waiting for me, so I shouldn’t stay much longer, but we could meet up again later tonight?”

“Later?”

“Yeah, like at nine?”

“Where?”

Sid pauses. The bathroom is obviously not a good option, just off the main lobby, but Sid has no idea what floor Zhenya is on, what out-of-the-way rooms there are. “We could maybe go out? We can meet in the lobby and walk around outside. If we don’t wear any obviously Russian or Canadian gear, we should be able to go unnoticed.”

Zhenya just stares at him and shakes his head.

“Right, sorry. We could meet in the lobby,” he says and points towards the door, “and then go outside and walk around,” he holds his hand up, index and middle fingers pointed down, and wiggles them back and forth. “If we don’t wear our gear,” he plucks at the Team Canada jacket, shaking his head, “we’ll probably be fine.”

“Here, walk, no Canada or Russia.”

“Yes, exactly. Nine o’clock, okay?”

“Good,” Zhenya nods. “Here, nine.”

“Yeah,” Sid breathes out and thinks about stealing another hug, but they’ve been in here long enough, and Brent is probably going to come looking for him soon, and it would be hard to explain why he is in a locked bathroom with a Russian player. “I’ll see you later, okay?”

“Later,” Zhenya echoes, and Sid slips out of the bathroom. A minute or two later, he sees Zhenya exit as well.

\----

The diner is crowded, overrun with players and fans from all over. When Patrice catches sight of a few guys in the red, white, and blue of Slovakia, they get into a discussion about their chances of beating them in the first game, debating strengths of individual players and depth of particular positions. It’s nice. Sid could talk about hockey all day and not get bored, but he finds himself eyeing the old neon clock as it ticks past eight, then eight thirty.

“We should probably start heading back,” he suggests, and they nod easily, continuing their debate about the US’s chances of sweeping their group again.

“I don’t know, man. Their first game is against Russia, and there’s no way those guys aren’t still pissed about last year. The US handed them their asses, and they ended up fifth in the tournament. I’d be ready to kick some American ass, if I were them.”

“Yes, but America won last year,” Patrice argues in his thick, French accent. “They want to win again.”

They’re back on their floor, nearing Brent’s room, when Sid interrupts, “Hey guys, I’m actually gonna head downstairs for a bit, see if my dad answered my email.”

“We could’ve done that before heading up,” Brent says. “It wouldn’t have been a big deal.”

“Nah, I didn’t want to hold you guys up. I’ll be back later, yeah?”

“Sure.”

Once they’ve disappeared into Brent’s room, Sid hurries down the hall to his own room, praying that his roommate isn’t back because he doesn’t want to explain why he’s changing.

Looking in the mirror, he pats his hair down and debates pulling a hat on over it, but the only hats he’s got have maple leafs on them, and that would attract too much attention. Resigned, he leaves his room and heads down stairs, wondering if Zhenya is already in the lobby waiting for him.

For all the busyness of the day, the lobby is almost silent, a few tired looking parents sitting around the tables in the breakfast area with coffees in hand and a bored desk attendant folding towels. A quick scan of the room lets Sid know Zhenya hasn’t made it down yet, but a figure hovering near the sliding doors catches his attention, and Zhenya nods at him once before walking outside, a heavy parka zipped up to the chin, leaving him almost unrecognizable.

Sid has to force himself not to run after him, deliberately slowing down as he passes the circle of armchairs where a couple of coaches seem to be hanging out.

Outside, the air has grown colder, the wind whipping around them in fits and bursts, and Sid nods toward the far end of the parking lot, where they aren’t likely to be seen or heard. They settle on the curb behind a giant twelve-passenger van, seated close, and Sid convinces himself it’s just for the warmth.

“How was your flight?”

Zhenya groans. “Long, so long. Early. I…I want,” he lays his forearms over his knees and rests his head against them, closing his eyes.

“Sleep?” Sid guesses.

“Yes, want sleep, but Sasha—Alexander Ovechkin—talk a lot.”

“I’m not keeping you up, am I? If you’re tired, you should definitely get some sleep. First games are in two days, and you don’t want to be too tired for those. I don’t want you to feel like you can’t get some sleep.”

Shaking his head, Zhenya laughs. “Sid, okay. Want sleep, yes, but want talk. Sleep after.”

A warm feeling blossoms in Sid’s chest, and he resists the urge to scoot closer to Zhenya, to burrow his way under his arm or into his lap. “Okay, but we can’t stay up too late. If we’re going to play each other in the final, we both need plenty of sleep for that.”

“Yes, sleep and Russia win.”

Sid rolls his eyes and shoves lightly at Zhenya’s shoulder. “We’re definitely going to beat you.”

“No, no. We win.”

“Sure, I’ll let you believe that.”

Silence falls, but it’s not uncomfortable. There’s an easiness between them, a effortlessness that Sid had forgotten.

“How is your family?”

“Good, Mama say hi. Papa, too.” Sid grins. “Denis not say hi. He say…you no friend…right now.” Sid can feel his face fall. “No, no, not sad, Sid. I…I not know…words. He say because you Canada and I Russia, not friends.”

“He said we can’t be friends because you’re playing for Russia and I’m playing for Canada?”

“Yes, not serious, Sid. He say, ‘No hi for Sid. Sid Canada. No hi for Sid when…when he Canada. Hi when Sid…when you…”

“When I’m not Canada?”

“Yes! Hi when Sid not Canada.”

Sid laughs. “Well, I guess I can understand. I’m sort of the enemy right now, so he probably shouldn’t be saying hi to me.”

“No, not true. You Canada, I say hi. You not Canada, I say hi. Friends…friends always.”

A slow smile breaks across Sid’s face, and he presses his shoulder against Zhenya’s, relishing the way he pushes back just enough to let Sid know he feels it. “Always friends.”

“Always friends.”

“How’s your season going? I can only find so much online. They don’t really report about the Superleague in Canada.”

“Season? Good, good. I work a lot. Want play NHL.”

“Are you going to come over next season?” Sid asks, and he can’t help the hopefulness that tinges the words.

“Next season,” Zhenya repeats slowly. “Yes, Seryozha, Sergei Gonchar say I ready.”

“Gonchar?”

“Yes, he play in Magnitogorsk now. No NHL, he play in Russia.”

“He played for Washington, right? Was just traded to the Bruins.”

“Yes, he say…he say…”

Sid waits patiently.

“I say you…but you no say Sid. Necessary no say.”

“You’re going to tell me, but I can’t tell? Oh, I can’t tell anyone else whatever you’re going to tell me. Got it.” He mimes zipping his lips. “I won’t tell. No say.”

Zhenya grins. “Good, good. Seryozha, he say play with Pittsburgh maybe.”

“He’s going to sign with the Penguins? Zhenya, that’s amazing. That would be so good for you. You would have a teammate you already know, who speaks Russian, who could help you out with the transition. That would be amazing.”

Nodding, Zhenya watches Sid. “Play in NHL, play with you.”

“That would be great. Zhenya, that would be awesome. We’d get to see each other at least a couple times a year. If we’re in the same division, we’d play three or four times every season.”

“On team, see always.”

Sid’s breath catches, and his mouth falls open. “I…” he doesn’t know what to say, doesn’t know how to tell Zhenya that he’s thought about that more than he should, that it’s something that’s kept him up at night. He wonders if Zhenya has thought about it, too, if he’s let himself imagine playing on the same team as Sid, winning together, being Stanley Cup Champions together. “Yeah, we could. We could, but Zhenya that’s so unlikely. The chances of that happening are so low. I don’t think…I don’t think that could happen.”

“Sid, maybe, maybe,” Zhenya tells him, and it sounds almost like a plea, a wish that Zhenya is making.

Sid swallows and turns to look at him. His features are in shadow, the light of the nearest lamppost barely reaching them.

“Maybe,” Sid responds.

They watch one another, and Sid’s not sure if he’s even breathing, scared it will break the fragile moment that stretches between them, delicate and precious.

“Sid,” Zhenya whispers. “Sid, I think about…”

“Yeah?”

“I think about…” he trails off again, and Sid just wants him to spit it out already, can’t stand the insufferable wait. “No, no, not listen me.” Zhenya breaks the contact and shakes his head, and Sid wants to scream.

“Tell me, please,” he pleads because sitting beside Zhenya, seeing the way he watches Sid with heat in his eyes makes him think he’s not alone in his late night thoughts, he’s not the only one imagining the other when he touches himself. Zhenya glances at him, and he looks worried, fearful even, and Sid can’t stand it. “It’s okay,” he promises, laying a hand on Zhenya’s arm, fingers resting just below his palm.

“I…” Sid nods encouragingly. “I think about…play with you a lot.”

It’s not what he wanted to hear, and he tries not to sound too disappointed, “Oh.”

“You not want?” Zhenya looks ready to pull away and head back into the hotel.

“No! I do. God, Zhenya, I want that so much. I think about it more than I should. I think about playing with you every day and winning the Stanley Cup together and being the stars of a franchise. I know I shouldn’t. I know that chances are so low of us going to the same team, but I can’t help but hope. You’re so good, and I know I could learn a lot from you and hopefully could teach you something, too.” He pauses and looks at Zhenya, wonders if he should tell him what else he thinks about.

He had been so sure that Zhenya was going to tell him he thought about Sid that way earlier. He had looked like he was right on the brink of confessing to Sid, but he’d pulled himself back, and Sid thinks about that conversation with Marc. He thinks about telling him how there was no way Zhenya could ever feel the same way about him because he was a Russian man, born in a country that didn’t care much for “alternative relationships”, and that gives him pause. Sid knows how dangerous it is for him to feel this way about Zhenya. Since that first conversation in the kitchen with his parents, they have talked about Sid’s future, his love of hockey and his affection for Zhenya, and how those could or couldn’t fit together. They want the best for Sid; they want him to be happy, but they are still so cautious, always reminding Sid how careful he has to be if he wants to play in the NHL.

Compared to Canada, Russia is probably ten times worse. If Sid needs to be cautious, Zhenya probably needs to be absolutely vigilant, for fear of risking his hockey career and his nationality. The stakes are so much higher, and if his parents know, they are probably constantly telling him to not get into trouble, to keep his head down. If Sid is told to be careful, Zhenya is probably told to avoid it at all costs.

Sid wonders if it’s be selfish to tell Zhenya, if he’s asking too much of him, but he also remembers his dad’s words that first night. In the soft glow of their kitchen, he had curled an arm around Sid and told him that there was more to life than hockey and that they would support him in whatever he chose to do. He wonders if Zhenya has ever been told that. His parents love him, that’s obvious in every email he writes, every picture he sends, and Sid tries to be brave.

“Zhenya,” he begins. “I think about playing with you, being on the same team in the same city. Even though it’s so unlikely, I think about spending my career with you, retiring together someday and maybe seeing our numbers raised, and I… I want that so badly. I know we could be so good together on the ice, but,” and he pauses, mustering the courage to continue, “but I also think about being with you beyond hockey.”

Zhenya’s brow furrows, and Sid presses on.

“I think about…about kissing you,” he admits, and it’s almost a whisper. “I think about falling asleep next to you every night and waking up to your face in the morning. I think about spending my life with you, maybe marrying you and starting a family someday. I know that sounds like every dumb teen romance novel, and I get it if you don’t feel the same way, but I don’t think I could live with myself if I didn’t tell you that.

“Meeting you last year kind of changed my life, made me realize that there’s more than just hockey, and I never gave that much thought before. I always planned on getting to the NHL and playing for as long as I could, but that’s about it. I would think about being in a relationship someday, but I had never met someone that mattered to me enough, never met someone that I felt I could trust enough to love in that way, and I’ve loved writing you, hearing about your life back in Russia, and I just…I just want to talk to you forever, so yeah.”

Sid can feel the hot flush of his face, but he doesn’t turn away, doesn’t back down from the words he’s just let spill into the space between them. He trusts Zhenya, believes that even if he doesn’t feel the same way he won’t tell anyone.

Zhenya is watching him with dark, hooded eyes, and Sid can’t parse his expression. The silence stretches out, dragging on long enough that Sid considers telling Zhenya to just forget about it.

“Okay, I’ve said too much,” he starts, and he can feel tears pooling in his eyes. “I should just go. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said anything. We can…I’ll see you later, okay?”

Before he can stand, Zhenya reaches out and wraps his long fingers around Sid’s wrist, stopping him. “No, I…” he looks lost, confused, and Sid doesn’t know what to do. “Sid, I… English not good. I not understand maybe.” Hesitantly, he goes on, “I think you say want, want with me…”

“I do. Zhenya, I really do want with you.”

“Want…me?”

“God yes.”

“Oh.”

A beat passes, then another.

“Sid, I want. Want you, a lot. Think about when…think about always.”

Sid’s breathless with it, heart hammering as he listens to Zhenya reciprocate his feelings, and though his English isn’t great and he most likely didn’t understand the majority of what Sid said, he wants him. In some way, Zhenya wants him, and Sid can’t help the soft laugh that escapes him.

“Oh my God, Zhenya,” he grins, bright and almost painfully wide. “I think about you so much, all the time, and I was so scared to say anything. I don’t want to lose you, don’t want to stop being your friend, but I also want so much more than that, and I had no idea how you felt. I couldn’t just ask that over email, and I was so worried about seeing you again because I knew I would tell you, and I had no idea how you would react because you’re from Russia and that’s not okay there, and I just…I just—”

“Sid,” Zhenya interrupts him and puts a finger over his mouth. “Not understand.”

“Sorry.”

“No sorry, is okay.” He lets his finger slide across Sid’s lips and the warm skin of his cheeks, until his hands curls around Sid’s jaw. “Sid, I want… not know how say. I want...”

“Me, too. Zhenya, yes. I want you to.” Sid leans forward, hoping that gets the message across, and Zhenya bends to meet him.

They’re slightly off the mark, Sid’s lips pressing against Zhenya’s cheek more than his mouth, but it’s still amazing, still everything Sid had hoped for and more. With a gentle nudge of his fingers, Zhenya realigns them until their lips meet, and Sid can’t help the sharp inhale that has Zhenya clumsily opening his mouth in response. He pulls back to readjust, but Zhenya whines and follows, mouth desperate and wet against his, and when his tongue trails over Sid’s lower lip in a slick slide, he moans.

The chill of the night is forgotten as they exchange slow kisses, learning how to angle their heads and where to put their hands, and Sid gets lost in it, enjoys the feel of Zhenya’s fingers raking through his curls and down his back. They’re sloppy and unpracticed, but he doesn’t care.

When they hear voices a ways off and the slamming of car doors, they jump apart, putting a foot between them as they strain to hear the sound of footsteps. They wait in silence for a minute, then two, and when they’re sure no one is coming their way, Sid breathes a heavy sigh of relief.

“Sid?”

“Yeah?”

“Late.”

“I know,” and he does, but he doesn’t want to leave.

“I…Sid, I love you.”

The words bring him up short, and he whips his head around to stare at Zhenya , mouth agape. “Zhenya, I…” he pauses and considers how to respond. It’s possible that Zhenya doesn’t understand the meaning of those words and that he wants to say he likes Sid, but the look on his face makes Sid doubt that.

Though they’ve known each other for a year, they’ve probably only been face-to-face for a few hours at most, and Sid knows it’s ridiculous to feel this way, knows people would probably tell him he’s being a typical teenage boy, led by his hormones, but he doesn’t believe that. He’s had a year of Zhenya’s emails and a handful of phone calls. He’s gotten to know him, his sense of humor and his likes and dislikes. He knows him and wants him, more than just physically, so he takes a risk.

“Я люблю тебя.”

Zhenya groans, long and low, and Sid wants to feel that against his chest, wants to hear it when they’re pressed close.

“Sid, Sid, you serious?”

“Of course, I’m serious. Are you serious? You said it first.”

“Serious, Sid. Я люблю тебя. I love you,” he murmurs as he pulls Sid back in, snaking an arm around his waist and carding his fingers through his hair.

Sid lets himself be led, following the gentle press of Zhenya’s fingers to his jaw or neck, breath hitching when Zhenya tilts his head enough to mouth at his neck. It’s sloppy and inexperienced, and Sid loves every minute of it. He nips at Zhenya’s lips lightly and enjoys the little gasp that gets him, smiling as Zhenya presses closer, bending Sid back until he has to put a hand out to steady himself.

The kiss goes on and on, each fading into the next, and Sid feels lightheaded from it all.

“We should stop,” he finally gets out between one breath and the next. He doesn’t want to, would much rather stay wrapped up in Zhenya’s arms, but he knows they both have curfews to follow, teams to support.

“No want,” Zhenya grumbles and bites at Sid’s earlobe, pulling it between his teeth.

“Zhenya, Zhenya, it’s late. Really late,” Sid tells him and gently shoves at him until he can sit up. “I want to stay out here with you. Hell, I wish I could take you inside with me, but we can’t. We’ve both got teams and rooms to get back to, and if we keep this up, we’ll never make it inside.”

Zhenya harrumphs but doesn’t protest.

“Do we want to meet here again? Nine o’clock tomorrow.”

“Here, nine. Good. I…”

“Yeah?”

“Sid, I want…”

“Yes?”

“We boyfriend, da?”

The questions catches him off guard, and he furrows. “Of course. I kissed you. I love you. Why wouldn’t we be boyfriends?”

Zhenya grins and shrugs bashfully. “People keess, say love you, when not true.”

“I’m not one of those people,” Sid says and reaches out to tangle his fingers with Zhenya’s. “I would never do that. You’re too important to me. I want to be your boyfriend. I want you to be my boyfriend.”

“Want, too.”

“Good, that’s good. We should probably figure out what that means for us with hockey and, and Russia, but we can’t do that tonight. We can talk about that tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow,” Zhenya repeats, and the heat in his eyes makes Sid think he’s going to have to work extra hard to actually have the conversation.

\----

He makes a token protest the next night when Zhenya pulls him down behind a bus before he can start in on the speech he prepared about being careful and not getting caught.

He loses track of time, wrapped up in Zhenya’s long arms. They should talk. They really need to talk, but each time Sid opens his mouth, Zhenya takes the opportunity to brush their tongues together, and Sid forgets whatever he wanted to say, words fading into a moan that should embarrass him more than it does.

He’s half in Zhenya’s lap, considering throwing caution to the wind and straddling him, when voices sound from close by.

“I can’t believe you forgot your fucking wallet out here, Kess.”

They both tense, the heady buzz vanishing as their hearts begin to race for a new reason. Sid’s stomach is roiling, panic setting in as he listens to the approaching footsteps.

“Shut up. It fell out of my pocket after dinner.”

“How could you not notice that, man?”

“I don’t know. You wouldn’t leave me alone about that girl at the diner, so I was a little bit distracted.”

A door creaks open, and Sid thinks they’re a few cars down.

“Distracted ‘cause you thought she was cute, right?”

“She was nice.”

The response is indistinct, and they must be climbing into the van or bus in search of the guy’s lost wallet.

“Whatever, man. I think you missed out. She was totally giving you the eyes.”

There’s a scoff. “Sure.”

“Come on, Kess. She was totally into you. God only knows why, but she was into you.”

“I’ll take your word for it, but let’s go. Coach’ll have our asses if he finds us outside this late.”

“It’s not even ten thirty yet. Don’t be such a do-gooder.”

Sid stops listening, as the voices face, the guys probably having found the wallet.

“Zhenya, we need to go. It’s late. Oh my God, it’s late, and we have games tomorrow. We can’t stay out like this.”

“Sid, is okay.”

“Ten thirty! Holy shit, I didn’t even realize how much time had passed, and we didn’t even talk. We need to talk, Zhenya.”

“What talk about?”

“About this, about us,” he answers with a gesture between them.

“We boyfriend.”

“Yeah, yes, obviously, but we need to talk about what that means for us, what that means for the future. We’re going to play in the NHL, and we probably need to talk to our families about this, and oh fuck. Oh fuck!”

“What? What?” Zhenya asks, worry clouding his eyes.

Sid feels panicked, overwhelmed. “My dad is coming tomorrow. My dad is coming for the first game, and Taylor and my mom are coming a couple days later, and they’re going to be here, and you’re going to be here, and I need to spend time with them because I don’t get to see them much during the season, but I also want to see you because I never get to see you.”

“Sid,” Zhenya reaches out and squeezes his shoulder gently. “Slow, please. Not understand. Family here?”

Sid takes a deep breath, then another, filling his lungs and pushing the air back out in a rush. “Right, sorry. My dad will be here tomorrow,” he repeats slowly. “My mom and Taylor are coming in a couple days.”

Zhenya grins, bright and happy. “Good! Is good. Family here. Mama and papa and Taylor.”

“Yeah, but I also want to spend time with you. I never get to see you, Zhenya.”

“See me and see family.”

“Sure, but that means I won’t spend as much time with either of you. I’ll be split between the team and my family and you.”

Shaking his head, Zhenya presses firmly at Sid’s shoulders. “No, Sid. See me and family…” He pauses, face scrunched as he tries to find the right word. “Me and family…” He enmeshes his fingers when he can’t figure out what to say.

“You and my family together?” Sid asks, incredulous.

“Yes, togeter. In email, family say hi. Mama make борщ. Taylor want play hockey. I know family. Family know me. Want meet.”

“You want to meet my family?”

Zhenya rolls his eyes fondly and pulls Sid into a hug, long arms looping around his waist. “Of course. We boyfriend, Sid. Meet family, good, normal.”

“I mean, I guess you’re right. That’s what most couples do, isn’t it? But we can’t just go out to dinner or something. Everyone would see that, and they’d ask questions and wonder why you knew my family, and that’s bad.”

Zhenya makes a considering noise. “Where family?”

“Where are they staying? My dad managed to get a room in the same hotel as us, I think.”

“Good, meet in room.”

Sid pauses to think about it. He’ll need to talk to his family first, explain that they’re dating now, and he’s certain his dad will remind him how careful he has to be, how he doesn’t have the anonymity any other teenager would, but he also knows they like Zhenya. Troy’s always asking about his stats for the season, and Trina’s requesting authentic Russian recipes because she doesn’t trust the ones online to be the real deal. They already like him, and though Sid mourns the loss of time alone with Zhenya, it feels too easy of a solution to brush off.

“Yeah, that’s actually a really good idea. I’ll need to talk to my dad tomorrow, but afterwards, I could call your room and give you the room number. Well, I probably shouldn’t do that. Your roommate could answer it, and he’d probably wonder why a Canadian was calling, asking for you.”

“No, is okay. When call?”

“Nine?”

Zhenya nods and presses a soft kiss to Sid’s lips. “Call nine, I meet papa.”

He sounds so sure of himself and of them, confident about meeting Sid’s parents as the boyfriend, and that’s a strange thought. Sid’s never had a relationship, never met anyone he wanted to date; hockey was it for him. With Zhenya though, Sid feels like he can have hockey and have him, and it’s even better because Zhenya loves hockey just as much as Sid does, and usually that’s what turns people off from Sid, but Zhenya gets it.

“Yeah, okay, sounds good. What’s your room number?

“Four seven three,” Zhenya rattles off, holding up the corresponding number of fingers just to be sure.

“473, okay. Okay, I need to go. We need sleep.”

Zhenya hums and ducks down for one last, lingering kiss, and Sid forces himself to break it, ignoring the pouty look Zhenya throws at him.

“Good luck tomorrow.”

“Good luck,” Zhenya answers.

\----

There’s press waiting after the game, reporters from all over ready to shove microphones in his face as they ask how he’s feeling about the team, if his two-goal performance shows that he’s ready for the draft, if he’s looking forward to playing the US or Russia later in the tournament.

Sid doesn’t want to answer the questions, doesn’t want to spout rehearsed lines as he counts the minutes, watching the clock tick away. The Russian team is already on the ice, warming up for their game against the US, and Sid wants to be out there watching, not trapped in the underground hallways. He can see Troy hovering outside the locker room, and he wants to dive into his arms for a hug, but he can’t because someone just asked if is looking forward to competing with Malkin and Ovechkin for the Calder, when he’s drafted later this year.

“I’m not thinking about that too much,” he tells them. “The draft’s a long ways off and the awards are even further. I’m just focused on this tournament and on our next game against Sweden.”

A manager steps in at that point, and Sid breathes a sigh of relief, waving to Troy as he heads into the locker room. Sutter’s postgame is short, a quick congratulations and a reminder about practice the next morning.

“Now, I know it’s Christmas,” he continues, “and you’ve got family waiting to celebrate the win and the holiday with you, so get changed and go be with them.”

Sid hurries through his shower, perfunctorily scrubbing down, before throwing on clean clothes and grabbing his bag. When he exits the locker room, he can see Troy waiting for him.

“Dad!” he calls out and drops his bag to wrap his arms around Troy, taking comfort in the familiar embrace.

“You played well, kiddo. Those were some nice goals.”

“Thanks, and thanks for coming.”

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world. Your mom and sister say hi by the way.”

Sid grins. “I’d tell you to say hi back, but I’ll see them when you do.”

Troy smiles back and reaches for Sid’s bag. “Let’s go throw this in the car. The Russians are still warming up, so we’ve got about ten minutes until puck drop.”

When they’ve stored his bag and found their seats, Troy scans the ice. “What number is Zhenya?”

“17,” Sid responds and feels the same contented warmth that always spills through him when his parents call Zhenya by his diminutive. They’d been quick to pick it up, Trina asking why Sid didn’t call him Evgeni and insisting on calling him Zhenya, though it had taken weeks to get the pronunciation down.

“It’ll be good to finally see him skate. It’s a shame the Russian League doesn’t get much press over here; all I’ve seen is the tape they played before his draft. I’m looking forward to seeing if he’s as good as they made him out to be.”

“He is,” Sid says. Though he’s never seen Zhenya live, he’s seen enough film to know he’s good, really good.

Troy nods, eyes scanning the players for Zhenya, locking onto the 17 printed across his back. “He’s still growing, isn’t he? His weight isn’t quite keeping up with his height, but he can put on some more muscle as he gets older. That reach though; that has to be difficult to defend.”

The breakdown of Zhenya’s warmups are just the beginning, and when Sid isn’t completely distracted by Zhenya doing amazing things, he’s listening to Troy’s running commentary.

“Oh that was a beautiful spin. God, he just glides, doesn’t he?”

“Hmm, he could work on those edges a little. He leans to the right too much.”

“What a shot! That had to hurt to stop.”

He keeps it up through the whole game, showering Zhenya with praise and critique indiscriminately. The loss is tough to watch, and Sid feels a sympathetic ache as he sees Zhenya’s shoulders droop in the last few minutes. He knows how much Zhenya wanted to beat them, how much he wanted to take down the reigning champions in the first game of the tournament.

Troy’s analysis of the game, the strengths and weaknesses of both teams, carries them through the drive to a little café in town, and when Sid asks if they can get their food to go, he gives him a strange look.

“You sure, kiddo? My room doesn’t have a real table. We’d probably be eating at the desk or on the bed.”

“Yeah, I want to get back to the hotel,” Sid answers but doesn’t offer anything more. He’s got an eye on the clock hanging on the wall, steadily ticking towards nine, and he doesn’t want Zhenya to be waiting for him to call, especially not after that game.

Troy gives in, and they make their way back to the hotel, dropping by Sid’s room to leave his gear out to dry, before settling in to eat. Sid’s halfway through his sandwich, when Troy gently nudges his foot.

“What’s on your mind, Sid?” he asks, setting aside his own dinner to turn towards Sid. “You played a good game, had two goals, but you’re acting like you just took a loss with the Russians.”

Sid glances over at the clock and sees he’s got ten minutes before he needs to call Zhenya, ten minutes to tell his dad about his new boyfriend. He carefully puts his sandwich down, scrubbing a napkin over his mouth before turning to face his dad.

“First, I should tell you that I haven’t done anything stupid.”

Troy raises an eyebrow. “Well, that’s not the most promising start to a conversation.”

“I just need to say that first because I don’t want you to worry.” Troy waves his hand as if telling Sid to continue, and he takes a deep breath. “I’m dating Zhenya,” he says in a rush and ducks his head, fingers fidgeting in his lap.

The words seem to echo in the silence that follows, ringing in Sid’s ears as he waits for Troy to respond. From the corner of his eye, he can see him lean forward, elbows on his knees and eyes fixed on Sid.

“Run that by me again, kiddo.”

Sid’s eyes flicker up to meet his gaze, then flit away, bouncing around the room. “I’m dating Zhenya,” he repeats, slow and mostly steady.

“You’re dating Zhenya?”

Sid nods.

“Okay, that’s new,” Troy says. “Want to tell me how that happened?”

Shrugging, Sid stays quiet.

Troy sighs and reaches out to still Sid’s bouncing knee. “I’m not upset, Sid. I hope you don’t think I am. I’m your father, and I love you. I just want to understand what changed because the last time we spoke Zhenya was just a friend you were excited to see again, and now you’re telling me he’s your…your boyfriend, and I’m not entirely surprised, but I can’t say I was expecting this. So let’s hear the story.”

“There’s not really a story,” Sid tries to say, but Troy scoffs.

“Every relationship has a story.” Sid bites his lip and can feel the flush rising in his cheeks already, painting them red. Troy arches a single brow. “You’ve been careful, right?” he asks cautiously.

“Oh my God, yes. I mean, no. I mean yes because no. That’s not—There’s not—Nothing is…” he trails off, and Troy chuckles.

“Well, that’s good to know. Now that we’ve got the most embarrassing part out of the way, why don’t you tell me how you ended up dating the boy you’ve had a crush on for the last year, hm?”

“I haven’t had a crush on him!”

“No? What would you call it then?”

Sid sputters. “I don’t know, but not a crush. That’s so middle school, so babyish.”

“And what you have is more than that?”

“Yeah,” Sid answers and immediately realizes what his dad has fished out of him.

Troy nods thoughtfully and pats at Sid’s knee. “Okay, so you’re pretty serious about this boy, and I hope he’s serious about you, too. Now, tell me how you got your first boyfriend, Sid.”

Accepting that he’s already addressed the most embarrassing topics, Sid recounts the story of Zhenya’s arrival, their chat in the bathroom, and the late night meetings in the corner of the parking lot. He edits out the kissing, though Troy’s expression lets Sid know he’s aware of the censoring.

“So, we’re dating now, and he wanted to meet you.”

“Meet me?”

“Yeah, usually I’d be with him right now, but you’re here, and I want to spend time with you, but I also want to be with him because we only get to email the rest of the year, so he suggested meeting you tonight and hanging out with us when he can get away from his team. Obviously, we’d be kind of stuck in the hotel because there’s no way he could go anywhere with us without causing everyone to freak out, but I don’t mind staying here if it means I get to be with you guys and him.”

Troy is nodding before Sid even finishes. “I think that’s a great idea. We’re here to see you, and there isn’t much to do in this town anyways, so I’ve got no problem hanging out at the hotel, and I don’t think your mom will either. She mentioned maybe trying to meet Zhenya during the tournament. I think she’s even got a Christmas gift for him.”

“Seriously?”

“Yeah, get him in here. It’ll be good to put a face to a name.”

Sid scrambles to his feet and grabs the phone on the nightstand, dialing Zhenya’s room number and waiting with bated breath as it rings.

“Sid?”

“Zhenya, hey. I’m with my dad, and he wants to meet you. Do you still want to come over?” After a heartbreaking loss, Sid would understand if he didn’t, but he’s got his fingers crossed that Zhenya says yes.

“Of course, want. See papa. See you.”

“Good, good. We’re in room 301, three zero one.”

“Okay. Bye, Sid.”

“Bye, see you in a minute.”

After Sid hangs up, he turns and sees Troy watching him with a considering look on his face. “You’re different when you talk to him, happier.” Sid opens his mouth to protest, but Troy holds a hand up. “I’m not saying you’re not happy when you talk to me or anyone else, but you’re…more relaxed with him. It’s like the pressure is off, and you can just be yourself. It’s good.”

Sid shrugs and gets up to open the door when he hears a quiet knock. Zhenya must have run down stairs as soon as they hung up.

When Sid lets him in, he can see the tight smile and the harsh set of his shoulders, the loss weighing at him, and he feels his heart break a little. Swinging the door shut, he tugs Zhenya close and wraps his arms around him, conscious but uncaring of Troy’s eyes on them. Zhenya resists for a moment, body a stiff line, but Sid doesn’t let him go. He gets a hand in Zhenya’s hair and pulls him down until he can whisper soothing nonsense in his ear, murmuring about how well Zhenya played, how good he looked out there, how much Sid loves him. That last part is just loud enough for Zhenya to hear, and when he answers in kind, choking the words out in garbled Russian, Sid feels something in him settle.

They hug until Zhenya’s eyes run dry and his “Я люблю тебя” doesn’t sound so watery and broken. When they pull apart, Zhenya scrubs at his eyes and looks over to see Troy still seated, gaze politely averted.

“Sorry, sorry. I…not want cry when…meet. I think not cry, but…” he trails off and shrugs helplessly.

Troy slowly rises and approaches them. “Losses are never easy. You don’t have to apologize for anything.” Grinning, he holds out a hand. “It’s nice to finally meet you, Zhenya. I’m Troy.”

Though Sid hadn’t been too worried, it’s still a relief when Zhenya and Troy get along, muddling their way through get-to-know-you questions and the inevitable hockey talk. Using the napkins from their dinner and a hotel pen, they map out plays and break down defensive strategies, Troy speaking slowly enough for Zhenya to follow, and Sid can’t help the smile that splits his face. When it gets close to curfew, Troy none-too-subtly tells them he is going to hop in the shower and that he’ll see them both tomorrow.

Sid fights off the blush that he can feel rising in his cheeks, but he also appreciates the alone-time that Troy is offering them.

“Like your dad,” Zhenya tells him.

“Yeah? I think he likes you, too.”

Grinning, Zhenya loops an arm around his waist, fingers toying with the hem of his jacket. “Da?”

“Da.” Sid leans in for a kiss, loving the easy way Zhenya bends to meet him. “He was surprised when I told him we were dating, that we’re boyfriends.”

“Not happy?”

Sid shakes his head. “No, no, it wasn’t that. I think he was just surprised at how quickly we decided to date. I talked to him before I left, before I came here, and he asked about you. He wanted to know if I would see you, so when I told him we were dating, he was surprised but happy. He likes you, and I’m sure my mom and Taylor will, too.”

“Is good, very good,” Zhenya says and steals another kiss, longer than the last, a slow slide of lips and teeth. Sid feels a little weak in the knees.

The bathroom door swings open abruptly and Troy freezes. “Sorry, sorry!” he exclaims as they jump apart. “I forgot my razor. Sorry about that. Should’ve knocked. I apologize. Let me just grab this,” he continues, rummaging in his suitcase until he pulls out his shaving kit. “Have a good night Zhenya. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow,” Zhenya echoes, face pale and drawn. When Troy pulls the bathroom door shut, he turns to look at Sid in horror. “Oh my God, Sid. Oh my God.”

Stuck between utter mortification at being caught and uncontrollable laughter over the look on Zhenya’s face, Sid shrugs bashfully. “Yeah, I guess that’s the cue to go back to our rooms.”

“Oh my God,” Zhenya mutters, shaking his head and turning to open the door. He pokes his head out to look down the hall, then looks back at Sid to wave goodbye, before darting out and up the stairs.

Sid sighs and makes his way toward his own room at a more sedate pace, a warm contentment bubbling in his chest when he thinks about the way Troy had smiled at Zhenya and patiently listened to him string his broken English together.

\----

Two days later, as he’s coming off the ice from a brutal win over the Swedes and another two goal performance, he can see his parents and Taylor waiting beyond the wall of reporters.

“Sidney, Sidney, who are you most worried about in the tournament this year? The Americans or the Russians?”

“I think they both have solid teams with some really great players and good depth. I know that the US beat Russia the other day, but it was a close game, so we’ll see how things shake out the rest of group play.”

Another reporter elbows his way through the crowd. “Canada is expected to make it to the final again this year. Who would you rather play against? The reigning champs or the Russians?”

“I really don’t have a preference either way. They would both be great competition.”

There’s more questions, more inane comments about other teams and players, and Sid just wants to get away from them. His family is waiting; Zhenya is probably on his way back to Grand Forks. Sid doesn’t want to waste any more time answering the same questions the same way.

“Alright, that’s enough,” a manager says, breaking up the scrum and guiding Sid into the locker room. He showers fast, throwing his gear in his bag haphazardly before going out to find his family.

A small body runs into him at full speed, little arms latching onto his legs. “Sid, Sid, Sid, Sid! That was such an awesome game. You had two goals. Two! Dad said you’re leading the tournament in scoring right now. That’s so cool.”

“Taylor,” Sid grins, hugging her tightly. “Hey, I swear you’ve grown at least a few inches since I saw you last.”

She smiles up at him. “I’m gonna be as tall as you some day.”

“Oh yeah? We’ll see about that, eh.”

“Sid,” Trina greets him, “you played so well.”

“Mom.” Sid reaches out to hug her, and Taylor giggles when she’s sandwiched between them.

“Let’s go grab some dinner to take back to the hotel. I think you’ve got quite a lot to catch me up on,” she tells him, and he blushes at the words, no doubt in his mind about what they will be talking about. They discuss Sid’s season and the tournament, the likelihood of the lockout ending any time soon, Trina steering the conversation to safe topics as they pick up their food and make their way back to the hotel.

Once everyone has settled in, Taylor curled up beside Sid on the bed and Troy and Trina taking the two chairs, she finally broaches the topic. “So Sid, your dad told me you’ve got some big news,” she begins, deliberately eyeing the fifth meal they had bought, and she probably already knows, but she’s going to make Sid tell the whole story over again.

“Right, well, Zhenya and I are dating.”

“Dating?” Taylor asks, face screwed up in confusion. “Isn’t Zhenya a boy?”

“Yes, sweetheart,” Trina tells her when Sid stays quiet for too long, unsure how to broach the topic with Taylor. “Boys can date each other.”

“They can?”

“Yes, boys can date girls or boys. It all depends on who they like.”

“And Sid likes Zhenya?”

“Yes.”

“Cool,” Taylor says with a shrug, apparently satisfied with the answer, and Sid can’t remember what it was like to view things so simply.

“Yes, it is cool,” Trina agrees, “and I would love to know how it happened because the last time I asked about Zhenya, Sid didn’t mention anything about dating.”

Sid flushes. “We weren’t dating the last time you asked about him.”

“So it happened during the tournament?”

“Yeah.”

Trina grins. “Well, let’s hear it. I’d say you’re long past due for some teasing about a boyfriend or girlfriend, and I know he’s supposed to be here soon, so we don’t have much time.”

“There’s really not much to say,” Sid tries, but Trina flaps a hand to silence him.

“Oh, don’t give me that. I don’t want to hear it.”

Sighing, Sid recounts the story again, blushing when Troy jumps in to inform everyone that he had walked in on Sid and Zhenya kissing the first night he was in town, and Taylor makes disgusted noises, while Trina laughs delightedly.

They’ve moved onto a discussion of the German team that Sid will be playing tomorrow, when there’s a soft knock at the door. Taylor looks around, confused, asking who could be coming to see them, while Trina grins, wide and excited, and waves at him to go answer it.

Zhenya is standing on the other side, looking tired but happy, fresh off a win and his first goal of the tournament. He slips inside, closing the door behind him, and pulls Sid into a hug.

“You play good. Two goals, Sid.”

“You too. I wish I could have been there to see your goal.”

Zhenya shrugs and ducks down to kiss him, and there’s a retching noise behind them, loud and unexpected, and Sid jerks back, stumbling away as he turns to see his family watching them. Troy has the long-suffering look of someone who has seen too much, Trina can’t seem to stop smiling, and Taylor still has her tongue out, gagging as she watches them.

“Ah,” Zhenya says, “hello family!”

Trina is the first to shake herself out of the shock and return Zhenya’s greeting, stepping forward to extend a hand that he ignores as he pulls her into an over-exuberant hug, longs arms wrapping around her small frame.

“It’s so good to finally meet you, Zhenya!” she says, pulling back to look at him. “I just feel like I know you already because of everything Sid has told us, but we’ve never actually spoken. How are you doing? How’s your family? You’ll have to tell Natalia that I finally made that pelmeni recipe she sent me, and I don’t think it quite turned out the way that it was supposed to, but it was still good.”

“Mom,” Sid interrupts, “slow down, seriously. I’m having trouble keeping up with you, and I speak English.”

“Right, yes, of course. Sorry about that, sweetheart,” she says, and Sid isn’t sure if she’s talking to him or Zhenya with the way she pats both of their cheeks.

“You’re Zhenya?” Taylor exclaims and leaps off the bed, vaulting into Zhenya’s arms, and he stumbles from the impact.

“And you Taylor,” he responds, gathering her close. “Best goalkeeper.”

Taylor pulls back and looks up at him. “But you’ve never even seen me play. How can you know if I’m any good?”

“Papa play NHL little bit. Brother best player in world—”

“That’s an exaggeration,” Sid cuts in.

“Is not,” Zhenya retorts. “Sid best, and you Sid sister. I know you best goalkeeper.”

Taylor squints at him for a moment, weighing the words. “You’re just saying Sid’s the best because he’s your boyfriend. You have to say he’s the best.”

There’s a moment’s pause when no one says anything, before Zhenya grins, “Maybe, but he still best,” and everyone bursts into laughter.

When they’ve regained control of themselves, Trina suggests they get back to eating, grabbing the fifth meal and handing it over to Zhenya.

“I know it’s not as good as the food back in Russia, but we thought you could use dinner.”

“For me?” he asks, a little awestruck.

“Yes, for you. Natalia is not here to make sure that you eat right, so I will do it for her.”

“Thank you,” Zhenya murmurs, carefully taking the bag from her hand, a soft smile tugging at his lips. “Mama very happy you do.”

“Zhenya! Come sit here,” Taylor says, patting at the space beside her. “I’ll sit in the middle, so you and Sid won’t be gross and keep kissing.”

“Hey,” Sid grumbles, affronted.

“I not know, Taylor,” Zhenya says, settling in beside her and looking over at Sid. “You very small, easy still kiss.” He busses a quick but loud kiss to Sid’s cheeks and laughs when Taylor begins to shriek in protest, shoving ineffectually at his chest to get them to separate.

“Stop being gross. I’m gonna throw up before I can finish my food.”

“No look, no listen,” Zhenya says and puts a hand over her eyes, as he leans forward to steal another kiss. It’s light and playful, and Sid can’t even find it in himself to be embarrassed that his boyfriend has kissed him in front of his parents, too pleased to see Taylor giggling and batting at Zhenya’s hand.

“Gross,” Taylor repeats when she’s finally free. “I totally get a bite of your cookie now.”

“Kookee?”

“Yeah, your cookie.” She sticks a hand in Zhenya’s bag and retrieves a chocolate chip cookie, holding it up in front of him.

“You want?”

“She has her own,” Trina says with a shake of her head. “She doesn’t need yours, too.”

Zhenya carefully pulls the cookie out of her hand before breaking it in half. “For you,” he says gravely, holding a half out to Taylor.

She gleefully reaches for the cookie, and Zhenya smugly steals another kiss over her head, shushing her when she protests. “You have cookie. I kiss Sid.”

“That’s not fair!”

“He did give you a whole half of his cookie, Tay,” Troy chips in. “You only asked for a bite earlier, so I think he’s bought himself a few more.”

Taylor scrunches up her face in disgust, and Sid can’t help but mirror the motion, mostly at the strangeness of hearing his dad joke about him kissing anyone.

“So, Zhenya, Sid says you scored against the Czechs, but that’s all we’ve heard about the game. How did it go?”

The question brings the conversation back to more comfortable territory, and Sid settles in, grinning as Zhenya muddles his way through a recap of the game, heavily assisted by gestures and diagrams and Troy’s translations that have become better since they met a few days before. Taylor picks up a few Russian words as they go, asking Zhenya to write them down and wrinkling her forehead when she sees the foreign letters.

“What do you mean that’s a ‘t’? That’s definitely an ‘m’.”

“No, this is ‘m’.”

“That looks like a weird ‘u’! What’s wrong with Russian?”

Zhenya just laughs. “What wrong with English? Not…more good. Is different.”

Taylor ponders the words, nibbling on her lower lip before nodding and pointing to another strange letter to ask for the pronunciation. She keeps it up until she is listing against Zhenya’s side, tongue tripping over the syllables as she tries to repeat them, too tired to enunciate properly.

“I think it’s past her bedtime and yours too,” Trina observes

Sid glances at the clock and jumps when he sees the time, carefully scrambling out of bed as he tries to not disturb Taylor’s sleep. Zhenya is only slightly more coordinated, gently nudging her into a more comfortable position as he frees himself from her octopus embrace.

“Thank you for dinner,” he tells Troy and Trina, accent thick around the words with fatigue.

“It was a pleasure, sweetheart,” Trina says, wrapping him in a hug that he returns with enthusiasm. “I know you’ve got a later game in Thief River tomorrow, but you are welcome to come over afterwards if there’s time. We’ll be here.”

“Come tomorrow?” he repeats.

“Yes.”

He smiles sleepily. “I come.”

“Zhenya, good luck against Belarus tomorrow,” Troy says, pulling him into a backslapping hug. “I’m sure you’ll do well, but just watch that left side okay, don’t leave it unprotected.”

“Yes.”

Trina wishes them a good night and slips into the bathroom, where the spray of the shower starts up. Troy begins to dig through his suitcase.

They aren’t subtle, Sid thinks, but he appreciates the gesture. Looping his fingers around Zhenya’s wrist, he leads him into the small entryway in some attempt at privacy, and Zhenya slides an arm around his waist to pull him close.

“Like family a lot,” Zhenya murmurs.

“Good,” Sid answers, tilting his head up for a kiss. “I’m pretty sure they like you, too.”

“Da?”

“Da.” They exchange slow, tired kisses, lips barely moving, and Sid hopes the shower drowns out the sound. “And thanks for being so good with Taylor. I think she had fun.”

Zhenya hums and plants a kiss right above the collar of Sid’s shirt that makes him shiver. “Like Taylor,” he breathes out. “She nice, fun.”

“I’m glad you think that,” Sid gets out around a gasp as Zhenya nips at his collarbone, teeth dragging over the skin. “We should probably…should probably go back—” Zhenya bites at his neck for a moment, and Sid chokes on a moan. “Okay, we should go. We need to go back to our rooms and sleep. We have games tomorrow.”

Zhenya groans out his displeasure but steps back. “Right, you right. Here tomorrow. Play good, da?”

“Da, good luck.”

Zhenya slips out the door, darting down the hallway and up the stairs, and Sid counts to twenty before following after him.

\----

Zhenya joins them when he can, ducking out after games and practices, reassuring Sid that it isn’t a problem.

“With team a lot. See all the time. Not see you a lot.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, very sure,” Zhenya promises, and Sid lets it go.

They celebrate the New Year together, and after dinner, Trina pulls out small gifts for everyone.

“I know this is a big holiday for you,” she tells Zhenya, speaking slowly enough for him to understand most of the words, “and I am sorry that you do not get to spend it with your family. I know we aren’t a good substitute, but I hope it’s better than nothing.”

Zhenya’s eyes are misty, tears pooling in them as he listens to her, and Sid leans harder into his side until Zhenya loops an arm around his shoulder.

“Thank you,” he chokes out. “Is so nice, so good. Thank you.”

Taylor climbs into his lap, patting his cheeks. “Don’t cry, Zhenya. We’re supposed to be happy. It’s the New Year, and Mom got us presents because this is like your Christmas.”

“Happy, Taylor. Very happy.”

“Then why are you crying? You cry when you’re sad, not when you’re happy.”

“Can cry if happy. I so happy, is…is…a lot.”

“You’re crying because you’re too happy?” Taylor asks, brows scrunched in an adorable furrow.

“Yes, too happy,” Zhenya answers, wrapping her in a one-armed hug. “Sad my mama and papa and brother not here, but…very happy you and Sid and your mama and papa here.”

Taylor throws her little arms around Zhenya’s neck and squeezes him tightly. “I am happy you’re here, too.”

Sid curls around Taylor, too, and Trina and Troy join them in a warm huddle.

“Thank you,” Zhenya mutters, voice thick with tears, and everyone presses closer.

“Я люблю тебя,” Sid whispers, and Zhenya responds in kind.

Taylor pulls back and looks up at them strangely. “What does that mean? Ya loobloo tebya?”

Sid blanches, regret sweeping through him. He shouldn’t have said anything. He should have kept his mouth shut.

“Я люблю тебя,” Zhenya corrects, and he looks at Sid, a question in his eyes. He’s probably thinking the same thing, has the same fear running through him. Sid takes a deep breath and nods, swallowing down the worry building in his chest. “Is ‘I love you’ in Russian.”

Taylor’s eyes light up, delight writ across her face, but Sid can see his parents exchange twin looks of shock, though they keep silent.

“Say it again!” Taylor demands. “Ya loobloo tebya.”

“Я люблю тебя,” Zhenya repeats, grinning down at her. “Я…”

“Ya.”

“Люблю…”

“Looblioo

“Tебя…”

“Tebya.”

“Da, good. Я люблю тебя.”

“Я люблю тебя.” It’s still rough, the foreign vowels rolling off her tongue hesitantly, but Zhenya’s smile goes wide at the words, and he cradles her close. “Mom, Я люблю тебя!” Taylor shouts. “Dad, Я люблю тебя. Sid, Я люблю тебя.”

“Я люблю тебя,” Sid responds and avoids his parents’ eyes, certain that there will be a conversation about why he is already telling his boyfriend that he loves him.

“You say it better,” Taylor pouts.

“I’ve got a head start on the Russian. Now, should we open presents? We’re going to have to do it soon if we want to watch a movie before curfew.”

“Presents! Presents! Can I go first? I want to open mine first!” Taylor’s already half into the wrapping paper before Trina responds, ripping through it with gusto and cheering when she finds a packet of her favorite candies inside. It isn’t much; she got her presents at Christmas, but they’ve always made the most of what they have.

Sid gets a little money for a movie or something else fun, even though his parents know just as well as he does that it will probably go to getting a snack or treat to share with Taylor. Trina and Troy both open bars of chocolate, and then Trina holds a slightly larger package out to Zhenya with a smile, nodding when he hesitantly reaches for it.

He picks at the wrapping paper, careful not to let it tear, and sets it aside when he’s finished, holding the gift like it’s precious. One fold at a time, he opens the bundle of fabric until Sid can make out the vivid red and gold crest and crossed, blue lines of the Nova Scotia flag.

“I know Sid gave you a Team Canada shirt last year, but I wanted you to have something a little bit closer to home. It’s the Nova Scotia flag. That’s the province we’re from in Canada.”

Zhenya delicately lifts the shirt, eyes tracing over the lines with care. “How say?”

“Nova Scotia,” Trina repeats.

“Nova Scotia.”

“That’s it. That’s our home.”

Zhenya abruptly stands. “One minute,” he says, holding up a finger before striding over to the bathroom. He emerges in the t-shirt and a large smile, arms held out wide for everyone to better admire it.

“Very nice,” Troy says, and everyone nods in agreement.

“I love. When I play NHL, I…I have…present…for you. Russia shirt and jacket.”

“That would be so cool!” Taylor exclaims. “You can play with Sid, and we’ll come see your home games sometimes, and it’ll be so cool.”

“I don’t know about that, kiddo,” Troy says gently. “The chances of them playing on the same team are pretty low.”

“It’ll work out,” Taylor shrugs, and she sounds more certain that Sid has ever felt about playing in the NHL or about being with Zhenya or playing with him. She has an easy confidence that Sid envies.

“You know future?” Zhenya asks with a raised brow, poking at Taylor’s stomach with a single finger. 

“No,” and she doesn’t even crack a smile, strangely serious, “but I know you and Sid will play together. You have to play together, otherwise it’s not fair.”

The words leave an ache in Sid’s chest, a pain that had mostly faded with the balm of Zhenya’s presence. At the tournament, Sid can see him every day, can expect to hear a knock at the door of his parents’ room and know who is standing on the other side waiting for him. It’s simple, easy, uncomplicated. He’s put off thoughts about the future, focusing on each day he has with Zhenya, but their time is drawing to a close. In four days—three and a half—the tournament will end, and Zhenya will fly thousands of kilometers away, and Sid doesn’t know what that means for them, doesn’t know what Zhenya will want when they say goodbye.

“We’ll see, sweetheart,” Trina says, and Sid can’t tell if she’s talking to Taylor or him or Zhenya, who is watching Sid closely, eyes boring into him. “We never know what the future holds, but let’s not worry about that tonight. It’s the New Year, so let’s just enjoy the rest of the evening before the boys need to get some sleep for their games tomorrow.”

“They will play together. I know it,” Taylor insists, but she doesn’t say anything more, flopping onto the bed and patting the spots beside her for Sid and Zhenya, still determined to keep them separated.

Sid rolls his eyes but collapses beside her, reaching across to twine his fingers with Zhenya’s, the only contact Taylor will allow because it isn’t totally gross to hold hands with someone.

Looking over at Zhenya in his Nova Scotia shirt, head tilted low as Taylor explains the movie to him, her third-grade vocabulary providing him with the simplest breakdown of the plot, Sid can’t help the burst of warmth in his chest, the simple happiness that washes through him, knowing the most important people in his life are here in this room.

\----

“Alright boys, tonight is the night. You’ve all worked your asses off over the last two weeks, and you deserve to be here.” Sutter has them in a circle, kneeling as he gives his last speech of the tournament. “It’s been eight years since Canada last brought home the gold, and we’ve taken silver the last three years. Silver is not good enough this year. Silver means we lost; silver means we ended the tournament with an ‘L’, and I won’t accept that. We’re going to get out there and show those Russians who really owns hockey. We’ll have Crosby’s line out with Phaneuf and Weber on the blue line, and Glass in goal. Let’s send these boys home with their tails between their legs!”

The team lets out a roar as jump to their feet, and Sid does his best to join in. He’s ready to play, ready to win, but he wants Zhenya to do well, too, wants a hard-fought and hard-won game. He wants to win, but he wants Zhenya to do well, too.

They take the ice, and the sea of red around them makes Sid feel like he is at home, playing on friendly ice. There are a few Russian flags in the crowd, a few people in assorted jerseys who have come simply because they enjoy hockey.

Through warm-ups, Sid keeps his eyes on their half of the rink, unwilling to let himself be distracted by the white jerseys on the other end, refusing to scan the players for the tall, lanky frame of his boyfriend. He thanks God Zhenya isn’t starting, though he feels bad as soon as the thought crosses his mind, but he doesn’t know how he’d handle coming face-to-face with Zhenya across the dot.

The ref drops the puck, and they’re off, taking possession quickly and scoring in the first minute. There’s an electric energy in the stadium, thousands of fans chanting and cheering them on, and Sid can feel the adrenaline thrumming through his veins.

They get another goal before the period is over, and another four in the second. The Russians are drooping, flagging without their captain, and Sid can’t help the pang of sympathy that washes through him when he sees Zhenya on the bench, face blank as the clock ticks forward.

When the buzzer sounds, they dogpile near the goal, jubilantly throwing themselves on top of each other, and the crowd is deafening, jumping in the stands and setting off air horns, chanting CA-NA-DA! CA-NA-DA!

When they set the medal around his neck, Sid feels like he’s on top of the world, untouchable, and he joins his teammates as they belt out the national anthem, terribly off-key. They’re swaying side-to-side, drunk off the victory and the roar of the crowd, cheesing it up for the cameras that pass.

They’re filtered into the handshake line, managers and security personnel guiding them into place with gentle but insistent hands. Getzlaf is behind him, shouting about how his parents are buying beer for everyone over eighteen.

“We’ll even sneak you one, Cros,” he mumbles low enough that no one else can hear, and Sid smiles at the thought.

He gets a fist bump from Ovechkin, his right arm tucked into a sling under his jersey, and Sid takes a risk, mumbling out a quick good game in Russian just to see Ovechkin’s head snap up, the upset fading into shock then confusion. They’re separated before he can say anything back, and Sid continues onto the next player, smiling at each surprised face his words receive.

When he reaches Zhenya, the words catch in his throat, sticking behind his teeth and dying on his lips. He doesn’t know what to say, doesn’t know how to comfort Zhenya without saying something he shouldn’t, and Zhenya is no help. He looks at Sid with hopeless eyes, the usual warmth extinguished after the gut-wrenching loss. Sid wants to wipe away his tears, wants to tell Zhenya that he matters more than hockey. He wants to promise him that they’ll never do this again, that next time they’ll win together, but he doesn’t have time. Getzlaf is pressing at his back, and Zhenya is letting go of his hand, eyes sliding away. Sid can’t let this happen, can’t let Zhenya slip away tonight.

He tightens his fingers and locks eyes with Zhenya. “Three zero one,” he says, voice shaky, praying that Zhenya understands everything he can’t say.

A beat passes, then another, and Zhenya drops his hand, moving on without a word. It’s like a bucket of ice water over Sid’s head, soaking under his pads and chilling his skin. He stumbles for a moment, can’t find his balance, and feels Getzlaf give him a shove. He nearly barrels into the next guy, who shoots him a dirty look and says something that needs no translation. Sid ducks his head, watching Carter’s skates in front of him for direction, vision blurry.

The locker room is raucous, bottles of soda and fake champagne being shaken and opened to coat the team in foam and sugar. Sutter doesn’t even bother with a speech, telling them to be ready to go at noon, before walking out to let them continue to spray each other. There’s yelling and screaming and backslapping, and Sid tries to recapture the joy of before, tries to paste a smile on his face and match the level of enthusiasm around him, but he can’t.

It feels like he’s been hollowed out, like someone tore him open and scooped out his insides with a rusty, old spoon, scarping against his ribs and spine to ensure everything had been removed. He pulls the medal off almost viciously, tossing it into his locker before stripping out of his jersey.

“Sid.” Brent stops him on his way to shower. “You alright?”

“We just won the gold medal,” Sid bites out. “I’m doing great.”

Brent’s eyes go wide. “Right, okay, yes. You are clearly doing great. How could I not see that?”

Sid groans. He just wants to take a shower and go see his family, wants to collapse into his parents’ arms and tell them that Zhenya probably won’t come by the room tonight, probably won’t talk to Sid ever again. “Look, I’m just tired. I’m going to grab a shower and get out of here, okay?”

Brent eyes him. “Okay, are you sure you’re okay?”

He’s a good guy, a good friend, and for a moment, Sid feels bad for how little they’ve hung out during the tournament. “I’m fine,” he says, a little more confidently, and Brent purses his lips before letting it go.

Sid rushes through his shower, begging off the team celebration to go be with his family. The guys rib him for it, chirping him about wanting to go show Mommy and Daddy his new, shiny medal, but he takes it with a practiced ease, letting the comments slide off his shoulders as he drags a t-shirt on, shoving the championship hat into his bag along with his sweat-soaked gear.

“Sid! Sid! Sid! You won!” Taylor shouts and hurls herself at him, hopping from foot-to-foot with excitement. “You won! You won! That was so awesome, so awesome. 6-1! Oh my God, that was such a good game.”

He musters up a weak smile and ruffles her hair.

“You played well, sweetheart,” Trina tells him when she’s close enough.

“It was a great game,” Troy adds.

“Thanks. It was good. It was good.”

“Where’s your medal?” Taylor asks, looking up at him with big eyes. “Why aren’t you wearing your medal? You won gold, Sid! You beat Russia.”

His chest feels tight and painful like it’s being squeezed by some unseen but powerful force, and he blinks away the tears. “I put it in my bag,” he fumbles out. “Don’t want it to get lost or anything.”

Taylor scoffs. “You can’t lose it if it’s around your neck!”

“Honey,” Trina interrupts, laying a hand on his arm, “is everything okay?”

He can’t speak, can’t open his mouth for fear that everything will come out, and that can’t happen here, not with the press milling about, not with his teammates spilling out of the locker room in a boisterous wave. “Can we just go home? I mean, back to the hotel.”

Trina opens her mouth, hesitates, and closes it again. “Of course, let’s get back. Dad can drop us off and go grab something for dinner.” She folds him into her arms, and though he’s got a solid four inches on her, he feels so small. They weave through the celebrating crowds, Trina and Troy acting as buffers when people press too close, and Taylor has fallen silent.

When they pull up outside the hotel, his parents have a silent conversation of raised eyebrows and shaking heads, and Taylor asks what’s going on, but no one answers.

It’s only when the door clicks shut behind them that Sid lets go, shoulders dropping and tears filling his eyes. Trina is beside him in a heartbeat, guiding him to sit down on the bed.

“What is, honey? What’s going on? You just won your game, the game you’ve been looking forward to all year. Why are you acting like you lost?”

“Because I did!” Sid responds, louder than he expected, voice thick with unshed tears. “I lost Zhenya. He’s never going to talk to me again! I know it.”

With an arm around him, she pulls his head to her shoulder, fingers carding through curls. “I doubt that, Sid. I know he lost, and he’s probably not happy about that, but he isn’t going to hold it against you. You might think he’s upset, but—”

“I don’t think it; I know it! He wouldn’t talk to me in the handshake line! Moved right past me without a word.”

“I’m sure he was just unhappy after the loss. He didn’t mean it.”

Sid’s sobbing now, fat tears rolling down his cheeks to soak into the fabric of Trina’s shirt. “He did. He did. I told him to come over, and he ignored me! Looked me right in the eye and said nothing.”

“You told him to come over here in the handshake line?” Trina asks, and her face has gone white, eyes wide and lips pale as she pulls away enough to look at Sid. “You told him that with all the other players around?”

“No, no. Of course, I didn’t say that. I just…I told him the room number, three zero one, because I couldn’t say anything else because everyone else was around and listening to us, and he didn’t say anything back. Didn’t nod, didn’t say yes, didn’t do anything besides move on to the next guy in line, and he’s never going to talk to me again, Mom! He probably hates me.”

Relieved Sid hadn’t actually said anything that could put him at risk, she tuts. “Don’t be silly, darling. He probably wasn’t expecting you to say anything like that. You just caught him off guard.”

Sid shakes his head, smearing the tears and snot across his face. “You didn’t see him, Mom. He looked right at me and didn’t say a word.”

“That doesn’t mean he isn’t coming. You have to remember that he has a lot more to lose than you do if anyone was to ever find out about you two. The NHL is on the line for both of you, but his citizenship might be as well. He probably didn’t want to take a risk with everyone around.”

There’s a small hand at Sid’s shoulder, gently patting. “You didn’t lose him, Sid. Zhenya люблю тебя. He’s mad now, but he won’t stay mad.”

“Yes,” Trina agrees, and Sid shakes his head but stays quiet, letting the tears drip down his cheeks until Troy comes in with dinner.

“This doesn’t quite look like the party I had expected,” he jokes, but it falls flat when Sid only sniffles and rubs at his nose with the sleeve of his jacket.

They don’t talk much, everyone getting their food and settling in to watch a movie after Sid refuses to answer any of Troy’s questions about the game. He doesn’t want to think about it, doesn’t want to talk about it. He’ll cry again if he does, and he’s cried enough.

The minutes tick by, and Sid feels himself wilt with every flickering change of the cheap hotel alarm. He wonders if he should try and stop by Zhenya’s room in the morning. It would be dangerous, reckless. His roommate could answer, and Sid would have to pretend he’d come to the wrong room, but at least he would have tried.

He’s nodding off, unable to keep his eyes open until the end of the movie, when Troy suddenly sits up and makes his way to the door. There’s the soft click of the lock and a quiet exclamation. He strains his ears to hear, but the movie is just loud enough to drown out the voices.

“Sid, could you come here?”

He considers ignoring it, faking sleep, or telling his dad to send away whatever teammate has stopped by.

“Sid?”

He groans and drags himself out from under the covers, resettling them around Taylor when she whines at the cold. The light from the hallway is blinding after the dim room, and it takes a moment for his eyes to adjust.

“Sid?” It’s his name again, but a different voice.

“Zhenya?” he asks, incredulous, squinting against the brightness to see him standing in the doorway, hands shoved in his pockets as he shifts from foot-to-foot.

“Can talk?”

The tendrils of fear that had been floating around since the game ended suddenly coalesce into a visceral dread, and he wants to say no, slam the door in Zhenya’s face and dive back into bed. He wants to pretend this is all a nightmare, that tomorrow he’ll wake up and everything will be okay again.

“Why don’t you come in, Zhenya?” Troy offers, stepping aside.

“Sid, is okay?” Zhenya asks, and he looks as lost as Sid feels.

“Yeah, sure. Um, we can talk here or in the bathroom, I guess.” He looks over to Troy, but he just gives him an encouraging clap on the shoulder before returning to Trina’s side.

With the door closed once more, the only light comes from the television, and Sid can barely make out Zhenya’s features. He isn’t saying anything, and Sid doesn’t know what to say, doesn’t know why Zhenya has asked to talk. He has an inkling, a hunch, but if Zhenya wants to break-up, he’s going to have to start the conversation.

“I sorry, Sid.”

It’s a shitty start, three words sending Sid into a tailspin, and he wants to object and tell Zhenya that they can move past this. One game shouldn’t make or break their relationship, but he can’t open his mouth, can’t force the words past his lips.

“I very sorry, Sid. I…I not talk…with team, I not talk…I—” He drops off into a vicious string of Russian, raking a hand through his hair as he stares despondently at Sid. “English very bad. I not know how say…I sorry, Sid. Very, very sorry.”

“For what?”

“For what?”

“Yeah, what are you sorry for? Why are you sorry?”

“Why?”

Sid resists the urge to grit his teeth. “Yeah, why are you sorry?”

Zhenya looks pained for a minute, and the sorrow Sid feels is slowly morphing into anger and annoyance, frustration at Zhenya for not just spitting it out.

“I sad…when lose. Hard, very hard,” he begins, and Sid isn’t following.

“What?”

“Hard lose. Bad game, very bad game. I not happy.”

“No shit,” Sid spits out, and though Zhenya might not know the words, he can clearly understand the intent behind them.

“I not happy, so I not talk…when…when…” He extends his hand, and Sid shrinks back into himself, unwilling to accept the contact. Zhenya droops, and it sparks a vindictive glee in Sid. “I want talk. Want talk a lot. But no. My team there; your team there. No talk.”

“You could have at least nodded, or, or squeezed my hand, or something. You just stared at me. I felt so stupid, watching you, waiting for you to give me answer when you weren’t going to. I was an idiot.”

“No. No, Sid,” he says, reaching out, but Sid takes a step back. Zhenya swallows and lets his hand drop. “I idiot. We lose…very hard, very sad. I not happy, but… want happy…for you. Want you happy. I…I know I not happy…so I think…not talk to Sid…Sid happy…not want…not want…not want you not happy.”

Sid tries to parse out the words, working through Zhenya’s broken English and choked up voice. “You weren’t happy because you lost,” he repeats slowly. “And you thought that if you talked to me, you would make me unhappy?”

“Da, I think…maybe not go here…go my room…sleep. Talk tomorrow when…not sad.”

“You were going to stay in your room?”

“Da.”

“Because you didn’t want to make me sad?”

“Da.”

“Well, you are an idiot,” Sid says, and there’s relief tinging his voice.

Zhenya looks up at him, surprise and concern evident. “What?”

“You are an idiot,” Sid repeats. “Zhenya, you could never make me not happy. I know losing sucked. I know exactly how you feel, and it’s not fun, but you can’t…you can’t avoid me when you feel bad just because you don’t want to bring me down. I was so worried that you were going to break up with me or something.”

“Break?”

“Break-up, like not be boyfriends anymore.”

“Not boyfriends?” Zhenya repeats, horrified. “You want not boyfriends?”

“No! God, no. I just, I thought that you would want to not be boyfriends because of the game, especially when you didn’t answer me in the handshake line, and it took you forever to come here. I thought you weren’t going to.”

Zhenya’s brows are furrowed, and Sid knows he spoke too quickly, words gushing out of him, but he can’t bring himself to regret it, too relieved to discover he was wrong.

“So, not break? Still boyfriends?” Zhenya asks hesitantly.

“Of course. Yes, definitely still boyfriends,” Sid agrees and lets Zhenya pull him into a tight embrace. “But you have to talk to me, even when you are not happy. Я люблю тебя, so I want to know when you aren’t happy. I want to be there for you.”

Zhenya’s nod is felt more than see, his head bobbing enough to shake them both. “Я люблю тебя, Sid. Очень люблю. I talk. When sad, when not happy. I talk, yes?”

“Yeah, whatever it is, I’ll listen. Just talk to me, Zhenya. I love you.”

“Love you,” he answers fiercely and tilts Sid’s head up for a kiss, mouth descending on his with intent. It’s sloppy and rough, Zhenya’s teeth catching on Sid’s lip as he drags him closer, his hands fisting in the thin material of Sid’s jacket. There’s no rhythm, no easy back-and-forth, just the insistent pressure of Zhenya’s tongue and teeth, and Sid lets him take whatever he needs, hands stroking gently over Zhenya’s back and neck, a sharp contrast to the kiss.

Someone clears their throat, and they jump apart.

“Do you want to watch a movie?” Sid finally asks, when he can’t take the silence and Zhenya’s heavy stare anymore.

“You sure, Sid?”

“What? Absolutely, why wouldn’t I be?”

“I know you happy. You win. Play good. I not happy, not want…”

“You won’t ruin anything Zhenya. I want you here. Winning the game was great, but win or lose, I would still want you here. And you can be sad, that’s okay. Losses suck. Please don’t pretend to be happy for me. Be sad; be angry. That’s okay, just don’t shut me out.”

Zhenya’s jaw shifts minutely from side-to-side, and Sid knows he is replaying the words in his head, picking them apart to try and understand.

“I happy, here. I sad, here. I not happy, here. You want here.”

“Yes, I always want you here.”

A grin breaks out across his face, and it’s like the clouds have finally parted after weeks of rain.

“Want you always,” he responds, and he drags Sid back against him, one hand delicately cradling a cheek as the other spreads, wide and proprietary, over his lower back. He bends slowly, eyes fixed on Sid’s lips with an almost predatory heat, and Sid surges up to meet him, fingers clutching at his shoulders as he presses against Zhenya.

It’s calmer than the last but no less passionate, and Sid bites back a moan when Zhenya’s tongue swipes across his lips, begging for entrance that Sid could never deny. He opens to him, lips parting on a sigh, and wishes they were alone and could explore more, lips and tongues and teeth and more than that, so much more. Sid wants to drag down the zipper of Zhenya’s hoodie and slide a hand beneath his t-shirt, feel the warm skin beneath.

The thought shocks him enough that he pulls back, stumbling away from Zhenya to suck in open-mouthed breaths as he tries to regain control of himself. He’s fantasized about Zhenya before, has imagined what it would be like to have Zhenya jerk him off or slide a couple of his long fingers inside, but he hasn’t thought much about what he’d do with/to Zhenya, especially not with him present.

“We should probably go watch the movie,” Sid mumbles, wiping at his lips and avoiding Zhenya’s questioning gaze.

“Yes, good idea.”

As they cross over to the bed, Sid keeps his head down, unwilling to see the looks his parents are almost certainly throwing their way.

Taylor is asleep, curled under the covers, and Sid carefully rolls her onto one side of the bed and claims the other for him and Zhenya. He sits and pats at the spot beside him, but Zhenya shakes his head, pushing at Sid’s shoulder until he is lying flat. Then, he climbs in beside him and rests his head on Sid’s shoulder with a careless arm thrown around his middle.

It’s not a position Sid has ever found himself in, and he’s tense for a few minutes, stiff as Zhenya rearranges him to his liking. When they’ve finally settled, Sid has an arm around his shoulders and a face full of Zhenya’s hair, but he isn’t complaining. They watch the movie in silence, and after a while, Sid can feel a hot warmth gathering on his chest, liquid seeping through his clothes. He pulls Zhenya closer, hitches a leg over him, and rubs his quaking back.

He doesn’t know when they fall asleep, can’t remember where they were at in the movie, but one second, he is gently rocking a teary Zhenya, and the next, he is opening his eyes to the weak sunlight of a winter morning. There’s a warm body at his back, an arm tossed around his waist, and he carefully rolls over.

Zhenya is still asleep, face peaceful, and Sid can’t help but stare, eyes tracing over the strong line of his nose and the full pout of his lips. He raises a cautious hand to trace up his jaw and around an ear, rubbing lightly at his cheeks to remove the last hints of tears. When Zhenya’s eyelashes begin to flutter, he thinks about pulling his hand back and feigning sleep, but he decides not to.

Zhenya blinks once, twice, before focusing in on Sid. “Красивый,” he rumbles out, and Sid fights the shiver that races down his spine.

“What does that mean?”

“Beautiful.”

A flush rises in Sid’s cheeks, and he scoots closer, tucking his head under Zhenya’s chin, overwhelmed by the words and the way Zhenya looks at him.

“Sid, no. Want see,” Zhenya whines, wiggling back so Sid can’t hide, grinning widely when Sid huffs but stays in place. “Так красивый, мой Сидка.”

“It really isn’t fair that you can compliment me in a language I don’t understand.”

Pressing a brief kiss to Sid’s forehead, he draws him back into the circle of his arms. “Study, Sid. Practice a lot. You can speak good.”

Sid laughs softly and rests a hand on Zhenya’s hip. “Maybe someday I’ll speak Russian as well as you speak English.”

“Never.”

“I don’t know. I think my Russian has improved more in the last year than your English has because you’re always insisting that things can’t be translated properly.”

“Великий и могучий русский язык, Sid. Is best.”

“Yeah, yeah. Whatever you say.”

The whir of the automatic lock interrupts them, and Sid jolts back.

“Morning, boys!” Troy calls, walking in with a plate of waffles and another of eggs, setting them on the desk.

“Did you both sleep okay?” Trina asks, and Sid nods slowly, eyeing his parents as they set everything up for breakfast. “Good, Zhenya, what time do you need to leave?”

“Time?”

“Yes, when do you need to be on the bus to go to the airport?”

He counts off on his fingers, before answering. “Ten.”

“Alright, we’ve still got some time then. We’ll let Taylor sleep a little longer, but we brought breakfast up for you two.”

“We’d like to talk with you before Zhenya needs to leave,” Troy adds, and Sid sits up straighter.

“Talk? About what?”

Troy sighs and lowers himself into one of the chairs, waving a hand at the end of the bed in invitation. When Sid turns to look, Zhenya is already looking back, eyebrows raised, and he shrugs in response, crawling to the end of the bed and nodding at Zhenya to do the same.

“We wanted to talk about this,” Troy begins, gesturing at them with a wry smile, and Sid flushes when he realizes he’s grabbed Zhenya’s hand, cradling it in his lap. “You know this isn’t a problem for me or your mom, Sid. We love you and support you, and your family seems great Zhenya, very nice, but do they know about this?”

Zhenya’s eyes are round, and he keeps looking over at Sid, sensing the importance of the conversation but not understanding. “Know?”

“Your mom and dad, do they know that you like boys? Do they know about Sidney?”

Zhenya watches him raptly, tracking the words as Troy speaks. “Mama and Papa? They know a little. Mama…mama ask about Sid, but she not know…we boyfriend.”

“Are you going to tell them when you get back to Russia?”

“Yes, I…I tell mama and papa when…when in Russia.”

“Will they be okay with this?” Trina asks him gently.

Zhenya’s brow furrows. “Be okay? Yes, yes. Not problem. They…we know…I know…” Sid squeezes his hand. “Problem in Russia, I know. Big problem, but mama and papa…not problem.”

“Good, that’s good to hear,” Trina says. “Well, it’s not good that it’s a problem back home, but I’m glad your parents are supportive.”

Zhenya nods and smiles, interlacing his fingers through Sid’s. “Mama and papa like Sid, I’m know. Like you, too,” he adds with a nod to Troy and Trina.

“And we like them. I’ve loved getting recipes from Natalia, and I hope that we’ll get to meet them at some point.”

“They want meet.”

“Good, that’s good.” She glances over at Troy and cocks her head.

“Right, that is good. Yes, now, we…we also wanted to talk to you about being careful—”

“Dad!” Sid interrupts, the words bursting out. “That’s not—we don’t need—it’s only been a couple weeks. We’re not about to do anything.”

Troy chuckles good-naturedly. “I’m glad to hear that, but I was talking more about being careful because you don’t want the wrong people to find out about this. We love you and support you both. Zhenya’s parents support you. But as much as I’d like to say that other people in your life will be okay with, many of them won’t.

“I told you this before, and I’m sure, Zhenya, that your mama and papa have told you the same thing, but you have to be careful. You have to…you have to keep this a secret, not because it’s bad but because your relationship could be used against you. You’re both phenomenal players. Zhenya, you’ve already been drafted, and you’ll be drafted this year, Sid. You’re both going to be big players in the NHL, and this is something that could keep you from ever stepping onto professional ice. Are you following this, Zhenya? Do you understand?”

Zhenya sucks at his lip, brow furrowed as he watches Troy. “Think I understand. I and Sid, we boyfriends…is problem for NHL. Big problem. NHL not like boyfriends. We…we…careful?”

“Yes, you need to be careful. It’s been great to be here with you and Sid. We’ve loved being able to hang out with you and give you a space to be together, but that won’t happen very much. There won’t be many safe places for you and Sid to be together. I wish things were different. I wish that you could be yourselves and not care what other people think, but life isn’t that easy. You need to be smart about this, especially if you’re both going to be in the NHL together.”

“And we really do wish things weren’t like this,” Trina says, forlorn. “We wish that we could take you both out with us and not worry about what people might say or think. We wish you wouldn’t have to keep a part of yourselves private and hidden away from the world, but people aren’t nice, and we don’t want either of you getting hurt. Alright?”

Their words sober Sid, the bright happiness he’s come to associate with Zhenya fading to a dull gleam. Despite some small bumps in the road, the last couple weeks have been easy with Zhenya only a floor away and his parents’ room providing a private meeting place. In a few hours though, Zhenya will board a plane and return to Magnitogorsk where he’ll be for the next six months at least. Then, even when they are both in the NHL, they won’t be able to get together much, sneaking around teammates and press for a few stolen moments. It will be hard, so hard, but Sid has done plenty of hard things in his life. He can do this. They can do this.

“I know how dangerous this is, and I know we’ll have to be careful and smart. I don’t like it, but I get it.”

“You shouldn’t like it; it’s not fair, but it’s life. Zhenya, what do you think?”

“I think you right. Boyfriends big problem in NHL, so we very very careful.”

Troy nods. “Good, I want you both to be happy, but I want you to be safe, too.”

“Thanks, Dad. We will be; I promise.”

“Thank you both for listening and being mature,” Trina tells them. “Now, let’s get some food in you before Zhenya needs to get going.”

They divvy up the waffles between them, and Sid doesn’t comment when Zhenya douses them in a veritable pool of syrup, prying open every little, single-serve package. They talk about the rest of their seasons, the upcoming draft and Zhenya’s plan to make the jump from the Superleague to the NHL.

“Maybe Pittsburgh…win number one, and we play together,” Zhenya says wistfully. “Easy play in NHL if you there.”

“Oh, wouldn’t that be something?” Trina says delightedly. “If you both played in Pittsburgh, we could come visit while your family is there, and I could meet Natalia, and Troy could talk hockey with Vladimir.”

“I think we’d need translators,” Troy responds. “My Russian’s a little rusty.”

“I’ve picked up a few words, and if we had Sid and Zhenya there, it wouldn’t be so hard. I think we could make do.”

It’s a nice fantasy, a tempting thought, but odds are low that Pittsburgh will get first pick, and Sid knows that, knows that they won’t end up on the same team.

“The lockout needs to end before we can even talk meeting Zhenya’s parents,” Sid says. “No hockey means no draft, means no Zhenya and his family coming to North America for games.”

“Damn labor disputes,” Troy mutters, and they segue into easier topics, debating the merits of different salary caps and whether Bettman really is the worst person ever. Taylor wakes up after a particularly loud outburst from Troy about the game becoming too much about business and not enough about the sport itself. She squeezes in between Sid and Zhenya, stealing bites of food off both their plates and trying to look innocent each time Sid catches her.

“Oh my,” Trina suddenly says. “I think you need to be going, Zhenya. You’ve only got a half hour before your bus leaves.”

Zhenya turns to look at the clock, frowning when he sees the time. “Yes, I go,” he sighs, setting his plate on the table and gently extracting himself from Taylor’s embrace. “Thank you for food…and for shirt…and, uh, bed. Sorry, I sleep here.”

“Don’t worry about it, honey. We’ve really enjoyed getting to know you.” Trina wraps him in a hug, nearly disappearing against Zhenya’s tall frame. “Travel safely, and say hi to your mom for me, okay?”

“Yes.”

“Good luck with the rest of the season, Zhenya. We look forward to seeing you again.”

“Thank you. Thank you for all…everything.”

When he turns to Taylor, she leaps into his arms. “Do you have to leave? You should just stay here. Well, not here. You should come to Canada with us. You can play for the Mooseheads, and you can have Sid’s room.”

“Hey!”

“He wouldn’t mind.”

Zhenya laughs and hugs her back just as fiercely. “No, I go to Russia. Play with Metallurg. Family there.”

“You could bring your family, too.”

“Not work. I go, but I see…when I play NHL, I see you, da?”

Taylor pouts, lower lip jutting out absurdly. “Do you have to go back to Russia?”

“Yes.”

“Fine, but you have to keep writing Sid.”

“Of course.”

“And send pictures when you can.”

“Yes, I send.”

“I’ll miss you, Zhenya.”

“Miss you, Taylor.”

She clutches at him until Trina steps forward to gently pull her away, shushing her complaints. “How about you eat this last waffle, so Sid and Zhenya can say goodbye?”

“I don’t want Zhenya to say goodbye.”

“Well, he needs to go back to his family and his team in Russia. You’ll see him again. Now look, there’s syrup and jam, depending on what you want.”

With Taylor successfully distracted, Sid reaches for Zhenya’s hand and pulls him into the small entryway.

“I’ll miss you, too,” he confesses when they’re out of sight.

“Miss you a lot, Sidka,” Zhenya responds, raising his free hand to cradle Sid’s jaw.

“What is that? You called me Sidka earlier. What does it mean?”

“Is…small name. Zhenya small name; Sidka small name.”

“Oh.”

“Is okay?”

“Yeah, yes, definitely,” Sid reassures him, pressing into Zhenya’s hand. “I like it.”

“Good,” Zhenya whispers, warm and low, and Sid can’t help but sway into him, head tilted up for a kiss that Zhenya gives easily. It’s soft, slow, both only too aware of Sid’s family just a few yards away, but Sid still whines a bit when they pull apart, wishing they could do more before they’re forced to separate for another interminable string of months.

“Enjoy home, okay?” he tells him, pushing aside the sadness he feels at saying goodbye. “Go and have fun, and we’ll see each other in the fall, yeah?”

“See in NHL. My team win.”

The unexpected words catch Sid off guard, and he lets out a loud, honking giggle. It’s part humor and part relief that Zhenya is able to joke about playing and winning or losing already.

“We’ll see.”

“Я люблю тебя, мой Сидка.”

“Я люблю тебя, Женя.”


End file.
